


Tennessee

by cakeby_thepound



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Richonne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 15:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 192,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeby_thepound/pseuds/cakeby_thepound
Summary: On a whim, Michonne Godard has moved away from the place she called home to settle near Gatlinburg, TN. She's looking to be alone, but her neighbor Rick's sole purpose seems to be making sure that she never is. And eventually, she finds that she may not want him around, but she just might need him. Based on the short story, North Country, by Roxane Gay. (Richonne AU.)





	1. Hurt

"Breakfast is ready, babe!"

Michonne inhaled softly and exhaled sharply as her fiancé's deep voice echoed throughout their home. She'd just opened up her laptop to get started on some work for the day, knowing she was unlikely to do much of anything later, but she was well aware he wouldn't rest, or even leave for work himself, if she didn't get some food in her stomach. If it weren't so thoughtful, it would've been weird that he treated her like she was still pregnant. Maybe it was weird anyway. Not that she had room to talk.

"I'm coming," she answered him, her voice barely reaching the hall as she trudged from her office area to their pristine kitchen. There he was, standing at the stove in half of his dark gray suit, a navy apron wrapped around his slim frame. She took a slow seat at the counter in the middle of the open room, waiting for him to serve her. "It smells good," she commented to his back.

"Damn right it does," he returned emphatically. Within seconds, he was placing a square white plate in front of her, hoping she'd be as excited to eat the sausage and peppers as he was to make it. She would've had a pan of biscuits to go with it if he'd had the time or thought she'd actually eat them. "Buon appetito, baby."

She forced a smile at the dish that looked more like dinner than breakast, but she certainly wasn't going to complain. It was 5 o'clock somewhere, she supposed. "Thank you," she replied, accepting the fork and knife that he handed over next.

Negan returned to the stove to clean up after himself, popping a piece of sausage into his mouth as he moved around. "Are you headed to the office today, or is this another 'telework' day?" he wondered. By his count, this was the eighth consecutive day of her padding around the house in her sweats and a robe, her locs flat and messy as they hid her beautiful face. He thought perhaps going outside would do her some good, but never knew exactly how to broach the topic. "I can drop you off on my way in…"

"I'm teleworking," she answered dryly, using her utensils to cut her food into even smaller pieces. Admittedly, it was debatable that what she did these days could be considered work. She often found herself distracted or staring into space within a couple of hours, before inevitably ending up in front of the TV, watching the Hallmark Channel. She and Columbo had a running appointment every morning at this point. Not even her job gave her fulfillment anymore.

"You want coffee?" he asked, his mouth full as he continued to bustle across the kitchen. "Juice?"

"Just water is fine," she shook her head.

He sighed at her frigidness – frustrated by it, even when he knew it wasn't her fault – and went to the refrigerator to retrieve the Brita. "I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies tonight," he suggested. "I've heard good shit about that Dunkirk movie. Or y'know, maybe Girls Trip… something to make you laugh."

She appreciated his considerate attempts to distract her. He'd been at it for nearly three months now and it hadn't been working. But the thought of having to get dressed… going to the movies on a Monday? "I'm good," she declined. "The Bachelorette is on tonight."

"Right," he nodded. Reminded for the nth time that his brilliant, charming, scientist of a future wife was so depressed that she didn't want to do anything but watch TV these days. And not just TV, but  _bad_  TV. And he hadn't the slightest fucking clue how to fix it. Certainly not when he had his own shit to work through. His little suggestions only seemed to annoy her. Every book he suggested went unread. She'd tried therapy a couple of times, but never found one she liked — a good fit was like a needle in a haystack. Their friends suggested a dog, because they make everything better, obviously, but he couldn't be sure that wouldn't make it worse. "Well, maybe this weekend," he conceded, pouring her a glass of water.

"Maybe so." She finally took a bite of her food, just to avoid having to add anything to this conversation. She watched him absently as he washed out the pan he used and cleaned off the stove, leaving everything spotless, the way he found it. This was their daily routine. Or it had been for the last several months, anyway. He was kind to her, even when she gave him nothing in return, and he didn't deserve that, she knew. Every morning, she woke up saying today would be a good day. She would be in a better mood; be more like Negan. And every day, she failed, falling deeper into her depression than the day before. "Food's good," she offered as a way of giving him something. Something to say she was still there.

He smiled back at her as he threw a dishtowel over the edge of the sink, then moved across the room to plant a quick goodbye kiss on her lips. "It's supposed to be a nice day," he said. He couldn't help but nudge her one more time. "Maybe take a walk. Even if it's just to the mailbox."

Again, she tried to smile as he stared into her eyes, and she wanted to be able to tell him she would. But instead she just ran a hand through his soft hair. "I'll see you later."

Negan dropped his head in disappointment, but he relented. He understood. "Should be home around my usual time," he said. He retrieved his suit jacket from the stair bannister on his way toward the door. "I am  _all_  in on Rachel and Peter, so I'm ready to see how this meet-the-family shit goes."

Michonne smiled genuinely for the first time all morning as he headed out, their alarm system chiming just at the telephone started to ring. Her expression fell as she listened to the Caller ID announce the caller –  _Michael Mellone_ , which she instantly recognized as Negan's mother. Why this woman insisted on calling the house instead of her son directly, she couldn't figure out. They only had a home phone because it came with the cable. "Hello?" she decided to answer – against her better judgment, knowing how much her soon-to-be mother-in-law liked to talk.

"Michonne?" the voice on the other end replied, her thick Queens accent taking hold within those two syllables alone. "It's Lucille. How are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm good," she answered without thinking; without wanting to think about it. "You actually  _just_  missed Negan, but I'm sure he has his phone on him, so you can catch him in the car."

"Oh, no, I wasn't looking for him," she returned. "I just talked to him yesterday, so he can wait."

"Oh." Michonne tried and failed not to sound chagrined by the idea that Lucille specifically wanted to talk to her. She could only imagine what about.

"I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay," she went on. "You don't call, you don't use Facebook anymore… This is the only way I have to check on you."

Michonne nodded into the phone. She wished she'd been smart enough to keep up the façade, if only to avoid phone calls like this. Her own mother did the same; always worried about her. What ever happened to the adage, 'No news is good news'? "I really am okay, Lucille," she said. "I've gone back to work, and things are good."

"Negan says you're mostly working from home now. That you don't even get dressed anymore..."

"That's because I don't have to get dressed," she shot back, her tone clipped. She immediately softened when she heard herself. "I mean, it's the same thing as me being in the office. I can still do my research and attend my meetings from my bedroom."

"Well I suppose I can't argue with you over that," she relented, though her skepticism was quite apparent. "But I did wanna come down and see you guys before the end of the summer…"

Michonne stared blankly at her full plate, not wanting to answer and encourage such a thing. The last thing she wanted was to be seen. In fact, more than anything, she wanted to disappear.  _God, give me a way to disappear_ , she thought to herself.

"Is August a good month for you two?" Lucille went on to ask.

 _No, god, please, no_. "August is fine," she confirmed, ignoring the screaming in her head.

"Okay, well I'll start looking at flights today, and I'll let you know what's good for my budget," she chuckled.

Michonne was too preoccupied with figuring out how she'd get out of this to insist that they'd pay. Maybe she'd be less inclined to come if she couldn't find an affordable flight. "Sounds good," she replied instead. She could feel her entire body shutting down, her mind having already checked out of the conversation. At that point, she would take any way off of the phone she could get. "I actually have a conference call I need to take, but we can talk about this later."

Lucille was disheartened by Michonne's wooden tone... the lifelessness in her voice. She'd hoped Negan was wrong, that she'd hear something else in her when they talked; that once they got to discussing the wedding and whatever else, that she might brighten a little. But they couldn't even get to that before she was rushing her off the phone. Unable to even pretend for a few minutes. "Okay, baby, I'll call you two tonight then."

"Have a good day," she tried to say politely. She knew it didn't sound polite – she had never been a very good actress. In college, she wanted to be part of the theater crew, but they wouldn't allow her to be on stage because she was so bad at emoting. She was a data scientist. She did research on vaccine deserts and studied machine learning and dealt in facts and figures. Not feelings. Which was why none of this shit made sense to her. Why couldn't she just move on with her life? She wanted to wake up and be normal again. Not mope around her gorgeous house with a near perfect man waiting on her, hand and foot, while waiting  _for_ her to get better.

But no, she sat at that kitchen counter with her full plate and a phone in her hand that she never used, and she felt the urge to burst into tears. She could feel them burning her eyes, that stirring in her throat, but nothing would come out. She was all cried out. And she didn't know if it was better or worse, wanting to cry –  _needing_  to – and not being able to. Nothing made sense.

* * *

"All right, gimme a hug, dude." Rick knelt down to his son's eight-year-old level, letting out a contented chuckle as the kid wrapped his arms around his neck. He closed his eyes and stood to his normal 5'11 height as he squeezed his boy affectionately. "I'm gonna miss you," he whispered.

"You always say that," Carl was quick to remind him, his head resting against his father's face.

"That's because I always miss you," he retorted honestly.

"It's just a few days, Dad. Mom does it all the time."

Rick took that opportunity to look at his ex-girlfriend, standing a few feet away. The way she watched them, it did remind him that this was a weekly occurrence for her. "Well I'm sure it's just as hard for her," he offered diplomatically, setting his son back on the floor. He ran his fingers through the kid's short brown hair before letting him go. "I guess I'll see you Friday, bud."

"I love you, Dad," he was sure to say before scurrying off toward his room.

"I love you, too," Rick chuckled again, shaking his head at his rambunctiousness. He envied it though, having so much energy all the time. He was relieved that their kid seemed happy. "He's funny," he commented to Lori as she moved to collect the bag Carl dropped in the foyer.

"He's a lot," she agreed with a smile, passing Rick to lean against the arm of her couch. "He reminds me of you."

"Well, he is my kid, so that's good," he joked, his eyes awkwardly scanning the home they used to share. "Is it – I mean, are you gonna be okay with him for the week?"

"Of course I will," she scoffed. "I'm his mother; I think I can handle more than one weekend at a time."

"I didn't mean it like that," Rick shook his head, smiling to keep the mood between them light. It had taken a long time for them to get to the point where they could be friendly, and he found himself constantly working to keep that harmony between them. "I guess I'm just more worried that I can't handle more than a weekend without him."

"Mmm," she smirked, her eyes briefly studying him and his sullen mood. "Well maybe you'll finally have some time to shave," she teased, referring to the thick, ugly beard he seemed intent on growing for the past few weeks, not to mention his lack of haircut lately. She was surprised their son still recognized him under all that hair.

He chuckled at her ribbing with an amused nod, his fingers instinctively going to scratch his hairy cheeks. "I dunno, I kinda like it. Carl does, too."

"Boys," Lori sighed, rolling her eyes before allowing them to take in the rest of him. She never understood how he wore those heavy boots of his in the dead of summer. "Well, I'm sure you're just gonna go up to your little cabin and build things, so you'll be fine for the week."

"I go up to my 'little cabin'," he retorted, emphasizing her choice of words, "to keep me occupied when I don't have Carl. That's all."

"Oh, you love it up there."

He shrugged, feeling protective of his little home away from home, and matched with a small, timid smile. "I do like the quiet."

"With that one runnin' around all the time, I'm sure you do."

"Which reminds me, he has a swim playdate at Cameron's on Thursday."

She nodded, making a mental note to put that on Carl's calendar for the week. "Oh, which reminds  _me_ ," she submitted, "Shane wanted to take him to one of the Titans' practice games. Apparently they play not far from you? So I wanted to see if that was okay to take him for a few hours next Saturday..." Her words trailed off, her tone conveying her unease, as she had no idea how Rick would react to the request.

He innately bridled at the mere mention of the guy's name – as he often did – so it didn't help that he apparently now wanted to encroach on his time with his son. It'd been hard enough to trade his weeks for weekends over the summer. But again, he was trying to reestablish a friendship with Lori for the sake of Carl. He wanted to end their constant bickering over custody and visitation and all that. Which meant that at some point, he would have to accept that Shane Walsh was a part of her life, and therefore, would be part of Carl's. "As long as you're there with 'em," he granted. Reluctantly.

"Of course," she promised. "He won't be hanging out with with Carl one-on-one until all four of us are comfortable with that."

Rick smirked, fairly certain that that day would never come for him. Everything had changed so quickly, or at least it seemed that way, and he felt like he was still trying to catch up. "Baby steps," he said, making his way toward the door. "We'll see how this goes first."

"We'll see you Friday," she grinned, clapping his back as he headed out. She felt him flinch at her touch, so she pulled back, but not before leaving him with what she hoped he'd take as kindness. "I really do hope you're doing okay," she said. "I think it's healthy that you're finding a way to get away from it all and recharge. Up in the mountains," she smiled at him wistfully. "I'm jealous."

Rick didn't have a response to that, not coming from the woman that was the reason he needed to  _get away from it all_  in the first place. Whenever he saw her, whenever they were in the same room for too long, he felt like his heart was warring with itself – this constant battle between hating her and still being in love with her. Because after ten years, he couldn't just move on. Not even when she'd turned his life upside down, all while she got to be happy with some other guy. And she had the gall to say that  _she_  was jealous? No, there was no response for that. "I'll call tonight to say good night," he submitted instead, his tone composed, despite the aggravation bubbling inside him.

He headed for his old Silverado, squinting at the image of his house and his ex in the doorway. He inhaled softly and exhaled sharply, deciding to leave his frustration there in the driveway. Truth be told, he couldn't wait to get to his little cabin, away from it all. Disappear...

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Michonne was standing in her bedroom with an open, empty suitcase sitting on her bed, waiting to be packed. She'd been through her full routine at that point – having her breakfast for lunch, answering only the emails that demanded easy answers, then returning to the couch for her viewing of General Hospital. After that, in the lull between daytime TV and the roundup of evening news, she'd made her way upstairs to her unborn baby's room. To sit in the nursery that would never be used, torturing herself with thoughts of what would never be. She knew it was the most unhealthy thing in the world, but like most addicts, she couldn't help herself. She liked the pain she experienced when she stood in front of his crib, picturing him inside it. Because at least she felt something. They'd painted his room in a light gray, with decals of jungle animals dancing along the walls, his name, Anthony, displayed in big, white letters. She always touched her fingers to the 'Y' as she swayed back and forth in the rocking chair that sat in the corner, tears always threatening to fall when she did.

Normally, she'd sit there for a while. She imagined this is how it would've been if he'd lived. She'd rock him to sleep and then watch him in his slumber, knowing she should've used that time to sleep herself. She should've been exhausted because she had a newborn, and his cries constantly ringing throughout the house at 3:00 a.m. made her miserable – in the most wonderful way. Instead, she was exhausted because she couldn't sleep, not for long; haunted by the ghost of the child she delivered, knowing he was already gone.

She wasn't sure what was different about today – perhaps she'd simply reached her limit. But she couldn't sit in that room any longer. She couldn't be in that house, echoing with its emptiness. So five minutes after she settled into his room, she picked herself up and went to her office, and she began to write down her thoughts. She wasn't sure what was going to come out, but once she finished, she realized it was a goodbye. She needed to disappear...

_I'm so sorry._

_I wanted to be able to do this. I did. I wanted to resume my life after what happened — grieve our loss and move on like a normal person. Like you. But after four months, I'm coming to see that I'm not a normal person. Not anymore. Every moment I spend in this house, every minute I'm with you, I'm in pain. I'm using every scrap of energy I have to block it out. All I do is try not to think about him. Do you know what it's like to ignore every impulse in your brain telling you to do something? It's exhausting. It's why I've turned my focus to TV. I need it so I can pretend to sleep; I need it so I can try to be awake. It's hard for me to even look at you, because I imagine him. I picture this beautiful infant with your face, the face I've seen in all those pictures of you as a kid, and I imagine you walking around the house with him in your arms and it makes me cry. And it's not your fault, but I can't help it. I can't look at myself either, because I still see myself as pregnant. The weight left when he did, I know, but I still see my round belly, full of our baby and it makes me crazy. And it's not my fault, but I can't help it. I'm so tired of seeing these things. I'm tired of sneaking into his room while you're at work and making myself cry so that I don't do it when you're home. I feel like I owe it to you to be okay, except I have no idea how to do that. I'm lost, Negan. And I love you, but it's not fair to either of us to pretend I can do this anymore._

_I don't know where I'm going, so please don't try to find me. But know that you didn't do anything to deserve this. You're beautiful and thoughtful and funny and passionate and you deserve better than me; much better than the fate I've resigned you to. So I genuinely hope you find happiness past this. I'm so sorry I wasn't better._

_Take care of yourself, please. Your sister and your mother, too. They need you, and you need them._

_I have to find a way to take care of me._

_-M_


	2. Girl Next Door Went A-Walking

It had been two full days since Michonne walked away from her life and her fiancé in Atlanta. In that time, she took a leave of absence from her job at the Centers for Disease Control, relying on the promise that she'd still have it if and when she came back. She had a long conversation with the director of her division, requesting a six-month hold on all her projects, and much to her surprise, he'd given it to her without any pushback. He said her mental health was paramount. It was one of the few perks of being a government employee, she had to admit – it was pretty difficult to get fired.

And with that, having discarded the one thing that might've allowed her to change her mind and stay, she decided on a place to go. She didn't want to go too far, in case of an emergency, for one. In case she didn't like it, for two. She didn't want to be halfway across the country if she were to decide she couldn't do this anymore either. She was such a fucking mess. It was a wonder she was managing pulling off such a sudden move like this. But it'd been a perfect way to keep her mind busy. Searching for affordable, livable homes in suitable cities...

After careful but speedy research, Michonne decided the mountains would be good for her. She definitely preferred warm weather – beaches and such – but thought the change would be nice. Maybe necessary. The Blue Ridge Mountains were only a few hours' drive from Atlanta if she picked the right place. She had options in the northern parts of Georgia, east Tennessee, and even areas of North and South Carolina. So she looked for houses in all those places. Cabins and treehouses that sat amongst nothing but nature. Some of them didn't even have doors. A true adventure, that she wasn't sure she was ready for.

But then a particular listing caught her eye, the description practically screaming at her from the screen:  _Three miles from the western edge of Smoky Mountain National Park. **It's very wooden and serene, with no civilization in sight.**  _It was all she needed to know. The fact that it was a three-hour drive from Atlanta, in some place she'd never heard of, was a bonus. She was sold before even speaking with the owner.

Luckily, the owner, Jeanne, was kind. Maybe she could hear the grief in her voice, or maybe she just didn't know how valuable this place was to Michonne, but she was letting it go for $800 a month. That felt like pocket change compared to the mortgage she and Negan paid on their Decatur home. So naturally, she took that deal.

Which brought her, two days later, to this cabin perched at the peak of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere. It was a beautiful house, described to her by Jeanne as 'traditional Appalachian style.' Made of rich, dark logs, decorated outside by the greenest shrubbery she'd ever seen. Inside was spacious and sparsely decorated – the main items downstairs were a large cherry wood table in the kitchen, and a couch in the living area, facing a fireplace encased in stone. It was already cool for July, so she imagined she'd end up spending a lot of evenings by the fire. A narrow flight of steps led up to a bedroom, with a king-sized bed that she couldn't see herself getting much sleep in – especially with no television in sight, though at least there was WiFi. The place was almost too big for what she was looking for, and she hated all the wood, but she would force herself to make it work.

That morning, she'd gone to an interview at UT Knoxville, hoping for an adjunct professor position in their College of Health and Human Sciences. She worked at the nucleus of public health, after all. Plus, there'd been some recent controversy over the lack of diversity in UT's faculty, particularly in the science departments, in which case, if all her fancy degrees didn't work, perhaps her black womanness would work to her advantage for once. She thought it would be a good idea to have some sort of income while she wasn't doing her actual job, and also have a little something to occupy her time. She couldn't phone it in like she had been. She'd have to get out of bed and face students, be somewhat social. The interview went well, she thought, but it was hard to tell for sure when she'd barely interacted with anyone for months. Her frame of reference was off. If she didn't hear back from them within the next two weeks, she figured she'd have to find something else. Even if it was just a part-time cashier at some local store. She would make that work, too. She had to.

Her phone had been buzzing incessantly since the evening she left, which was to be expected. Message after message, call after call, 90% of which were from Negan. She knew she should've answered – their relationship warranted that much, at least – but she couldn't. There was nothing to say, and too much of a risk that he'd convince her to come home. She'd hear his voice and his pleas and tell herself that he didn't deserve to be miserable just because she was, so she'd go running back to him. She couldn't take that chance.

She did take calls from her parents, though. Her mother was very clear about the fact that she'd call the police if she got even an inkling that she was in danger. So she'd checked in with them at every juncture of her journey, just to assure them she hadn't been kidnapped or killed. After she quit her job, after she found a new place. She called them when she left Atlanta, and now that she'd arrived and seen that her new home was real and clean and not some terrible mistake, on its surface at least, she would call them again.

She opted for a Skype session this time, as the cell phone reception up there was questionable, at best. And she hoped that if they actually saw her, had visible proof that she was safe, they'd worry less. It was a long shot, given the fact that her mother called her every single day when she went off to college. And again, when she went to grad school, solely because it was in a different city. 'The big city,' as they referred to it. Of course, compared to her town of 9,000 people in Iowa, Atlanta was huge, so she got it. She appreciated it. Now, at almost 36 years old, that wasn't quite the case.

"Hey, Mom," Michonne greeted her mother, looking like a nearly identical version of herself, only smiling, when she appeared on her laptop screen.

"Hi, sweetie," she chirped in response, relieved to see her daughter's face, even when it looked glum and gaunt; her beautiful dark skin ashen. Dull. Rose's expression immediately turned to one of concern when she realized she couldn't go take care of her daughter if she wanted to, because she didn't even know where she lived now. Which was terrifying. "Are you okay?" she asked, praying for a convincing answer.

"I feel better now that I'm here," Michonne promised with a small nod. But she could see the worry on her mother's face, which only amplified her feelings of remorse for leaving. "The place I found is pretty nice."

"It looks… cozy," she struggled to describe, based on what little she could see in the background. Wood paneling everywhere didn't quite seem like her daughter's style.

"I wanted cozy, but it's actually much bigger than I need," she sighed, her gaze scanning the open kitchen in front of her. "But it's fine."

"You don't like it," Rose knew, her voice steeped in disappointment for her.

"It's fine."

"You can go back home," she suggested carefully. She didn't want to sound unsupportive, but she would've felt so much better to know her daughter was back in Atlanta where she was supposed to be. "You don't have to force yourself to stay there just because you left."

"I've been here for an hour, Mom. I don't know how I feel about it." She said it for herself more than anything. "But I'm gonna stick it out for at least a week."

"If you feel like you can't go home to your husband, you can always come here," she appended. "You're not alone, sweetie."

Michonne sighed, shaking her head at the fact that her mother clearly hadn't heard a word she'd said since Monday. The fact that she insisted on calling Negan her husband when she'd effectively ended their engagement... "I  _want_  to be alone. That's the whole point, Mom."

"Okay," she was quick to relent upon hearing her rigid tone. "I just – I mean if you change your mind. Don't think you can't come back."

"Where's Dad?" she exhaled again, unable to hide her exasperation.

"He's outside cutting the grass, but probably running his mouth as usual," she chuckled, rising from her spot at the kitchen table to go chase down her husband.

Michonne watched the screen as her mother and her phone wooshed through their house, and she found herself feeling homesick for a place she had no desire to be. She left Iowa nineteen years ago and hadn't looked back, other than for holiday visits when she could fit them in. It was an odd feeling to want to be there now, but she chalked it up to being in a strange place, in several senses of the term. She even managed a little smile as her mom continued outside and sweetly yelled for her husband to get off of his lawnmower to talk to his daughter. It was a mere matter of seconds before he appeared in the frame, he and his wife cheek to cheek.

"Hi, my darling girl," he greeted her warmly, a big smile to match.

"Hi, Daddy," Michonne waved at him, his happiness managing to affect her marginally, at least. Hearing his beautiful French-tinged accent always made her feel like a kid again, and she continued to smile as she gazed at them. "I made it," she said.

"I see you did," Joseph nodded, peering into the background the same way Rose had done. "Now where the hell are you?" he chuckled.

"I'm in Tennessee," she answered, purposely vague about where, exactly, within the broad state.

"She's not going to tell us because she thinks we'll come look for her," Rose informed him.

"Nobody is coming after you, child," he joked. "You're a grown woman who's run away from her life. That's your decision."

"You hear that, Mom?" Michonne pointed out, relieved to hear that at least one person got it.

"Oh, please. He's putting on an act for you, trying to pretend he's not just as worried as the rest of us."

Her expression deflated at her mother's use of the word 'us.' Not that she expected any different, but it was a reminder that Negan had probably been in close contact with them. She'd gotten a few calls from her best friend, too, which was another apology she'd have to extend at some point soon. "How is he?" she asked, referring to her fiancé. Her ex-fiancé, she supposed. Her voice was thin as it came out, because she knew she shouldn't be asking.

"He's about as bad as you'd expect him to be," Rose answered plainly. She was still in disbelief about it all. She did figure it was better that Michonne leave now instead of embarrassing him at the altar or something along those lines, but all of this was just so unlike her younger daughter. "I think he'd like to talk to you, at least."

She shook her head, wishing she could shake away the guilt along with it. "Just tell him I'm okay?" she asked of them.

"We will, sweetheart," Joseph promised. "But do us a favor and make sure that you really are."

"I'm trying to be," she nodded. "I had a job interview for a place here," she offered, wanting them to take that as a sign of life and her attempting to have one. She really was trying here. And it was slightly easier to do that without the reminders of Anthony everywhere she turned. "I think I'm gonna take a walk," she added, thinking about Negan then – how it was the last thing he suggested before he left. Before she left. "See what my new neighborhood is like…"

"Oh, well don't let us keep you," Rose grinned at that news. Based on the daily reports she'd gotten from Negan, it had become a herculean feat to get her to do that much. "Let us know what it's like."

"Take pictures," Joseph suggested with a smirk, secretly hoping they'd give away her location.

She smiled faintly at her parents, their silliness comforting in a moment where nothing felt comfortable — by design, of course. "I'll call you guys in a couple of days," she promised, waving at them one more time.

"We love you, Mich—"

She'd inadvertently cut off the call before her mother could finish her sentence. She instinctively touched the screen as if it could bring them back somehow, as if she could touch them, then let out a big sigh when she realized she was, indeed, alone.

"A walk," she spoke out loud to herself. That's what she said she would do, and it was in her best interests to actually get up and do it before she could talk herself out of it. She'd gotten good at saying she'd do something later, knowing damn well she wouldn't. But she was genuinely interested in the lay of the land around there. She thought she'd seen a lake or pond when she was driving in, which seemed like a nice thing to have nearby. The temperature was almost shockingly low for late July, so she didn't expect to go swimming anytime soon, but maybe fishing was in her future. With the whole 'no civilization in sight,' she imagined that would be something she'd get bored enough to try.

Michonne collected her phone, containing the instructions for how to lock the front door, along with a light sweater for the mild weather and headed on out. She stopped on her porch for a while, just to take in the view for the first time. She hadn't noticed the two rocking chairs perched up there when she came in, but she had now, and they reminded her of her home. Her old home, that is. She and Negan spent three days picking out the one they ended up putting in Anthony's room. So with that in mind, she stuffed her phone in her back pocket and decided to turn the chairs on their heads so that they could no longer rock.

Once that was done, she continued down the short staircase of the porch and ventured into the neighborhood. Her front yard was small, practically nonexistent compared to her old place, with no driveway to speak of, which she was unused to. Back in civilization, people had their own little spaces cut out for them, clearly delineated. But with only a couple of other houses in the area, maybe it all belonged to her. Across the road there was a seemingly endless lot, filled with trees and nothing else. She imagined it would be quite beautiful in the autumn once the leaves turned all their different colors. But for now, it was just a sea of green, too thick to even see through.

She proceeded onto the road, opting to go downhill, the way she came in, hoping to familiarize herself with the route. The neighborhood was quiet, almost annoyingly so, aside from a few chirping birds, the leaves whispering in the wind, and as she got toward the bottom of the hill, the sound of water running. She was correct about passing a creek on her way in, and as she came to a bridge in the road, she realized there was a little waterfall flowing into it. In the distance, the mountains made for the most beautiful backdrop to it all. It was all so perfectly picturesque. Her friend Glenn was an amateur photographer, and he would've  _loved_  this place. She almost – almost – took out her phone to take some pictures for him, but alas, she wasn't ready for the conversation that would open up.

Instead, she decided to follow the bridge's path, allowing it to take her straight down to the creek. There was a cute little painted sign on the way that read, 'Fishing Hole,' which made her chuckle to herself. The neighborhood seemed so uninhabited, she wondered who'd put it there?

In hindsight, it probably should have been obvious when she spotted a giant house nestled in the trees, not far away. But in the moment, she thought nothing of it and continued with her little adventure, tiptoeing through the grass until she was at the edge of the greenish water. She closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh air, the sound of the rippling filling her mind. In that moment, she let herself believe that maybe this wasn't the worst idea after all.

She even went so far as to take a seat in the grass, not caring whether it was damp and could seep through her jeans. She should've cared, because she didn't bring much. She took her largest suitcase and still, it didn't fit everything. She tried for the essentials and a few mementos, but by and large, her walk-in closet back at home – her old home, that is – was left in tact. So she probably should've taken care not to sully her best pair of jeans. But she didn't. She sat crosslegged in the cool grass, eyes still shut, and imagined herself floating away in the water. A spectator probably would've thought she was meditating.

And Rick was certainly confused when he looked out of the window of his garage to find a stranger sitting at the other end of his yard. He wasn't sure what he found weirder: the fact that someone was actually out there, or that she had taken to his property to do… whatever it was she was doing. He was fairly certain it was the former, since he'd yet to meet a neighbor in the year since he'd been coming to the place. And even when he went into town, it was rare to see a black person, which made her appearance all the more mystifying.

Not wanting to scare her, he made the conscious decision not to open his garage, but slipped inside his home to go out through the front. He kept his footsteps light, his eyes fixed on her, as if he were approaching a doe, until he was close enough to see what she was doing. Praying? Pondering? Her face was pointed to the sky, so he figured it was likely one of the two, and he was reluctant to disturb her in that case. So he watched from afar, for a few minutes, at least. He had to wonder what a beautiful woman like this was doing in the middle of nowhere; how she'd found her way to his yard. She had the most beautiful skin, rivaling the sun in brilliance. It reminded him of his favorite wood stain – Jacobean – a perfect dark brown that managed to enrich every room it was in.

He eventually recognized that he was staring, and should probably speak before he veered into creepy territory, so he did. "Hello," he called out to her softly, his footsteps inching toward her again.

Michonne's eyes popped open at the sound of a voice that she was pretty sure wasn't in her head. Her momentary serenity stripped away, she peered at the figure walking toward her. He was kind of tall and lean and had far too much hair on his face and head. He looked like he'd spent most of his summer in the sun, his peachy skin bearing a golden glow. She would've thought he was homeless had it not been for the house set behind him. And something about his gait also told her that he wasn't lacking much of anything – especially confidence.

"Are you lost?" he asked when she didn't reply. It occurred to him that he'd probably startled her, so he stopped in his tracks so as not to alarm her any further.

 _What a loaded question_ , she thought. Ignoring it, she rushed to her feet, realizing that she was probably trespassing on this man's property. He seemed harmless enough, but she did need the reminder that she was not in Atlanta anymore. She couldn't just go exploring some random neighborhood in the middle of Bumblefuck, Tennessee and think she was safe. "I'm sorry," she replied to him, shaking her head. "I thought this was public property."

"It's all right," he chuckled, detecting her uneasiness. "I just saw you out here and I wasn't sure what the hell was goin' on. I've yet to see another face but mine up here."

"Ah." She found that encouraging – accurate advertising on the part of her landlord. "Well I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "I just saw the water and wanted to sit by it for a minute."

"You're welcome to it," he was quick to offer. "I'm Rick, by the way."

He moved closer to extend his hand, and she had to ignore everything in her that wanted her to back away from his advance. Instead, she accepted his hand, even feeling some version of comfort when their eyes locked. His were the color of the sky, and she imagined there might've even been an attractive guy somewhere under all that hair. "Michonne," she reluctantly revealed.

He nodded at the unique name, taken in by her eyes, as well. Just a shade or two darker than her skin, they were big and beautiful and sad, in a way where he felt lost in them for a moment. He'd forgotten what else he wanted to say to her.

"I should go," she submitted, feeling overwhelmed by the prolonged contact. "I'm sorry, again, about disturbing you."

"You're fine," he promised, his gaze involuntarily roaming down her slim frame to get a full look at her. Her eyes remained his favorite. "Are you stayin' around here?"

"Up the hill," Michonne admitted with a small nod. He had a southern drawl that managed to make her feel warm; nothing like Negan's brash New York accent that she'd forced herself to enjoy at some point in the last five years. She also wasn't sure why she was comparing the two. "I guess I'll see you around."

"Well I'm here if you need..." he started to say, watching her turn to walk away before he could finish his sentence. "...anything."

* * *

Michonne walked back into her house with the realization that she had no food to speak of. Nothing more than some junk food she'd collected on her drive up there. All that talk in her head about fishing, when she probably needed to be out there actually learning how to do it. What with no civilization in sight and all.

She pulled out her phone again, deciding that she would just make one big trip into the nearest town, collect her necessary items, then she wouldn't have to worry about it for a while. She opened up Waze, first searching for the closest Target, only to find that it was a full hour away in Knoxville. She frowned at her screen, wondering if the shoddy reception was perhaps missing somewhere closer. She switched her search to Wal-Mart – a place she wouldn't have been caught dead in back home, but at least it was a recognizable name. A 40-minute drive, which wasn't much better. She wasn't expecting her typical Trader Joe's and Sprouts options up there in the Great Smoky Mountains, or wherever the hell she was, but damn. "Not even a Walmart," she sighed.

As she scrolled and flicked through her phone, trying to discern the quality of closer places with names she didn't recognize, she received a text from Negan – one of at least twenty since she'd left. She'd successfully ignored most of the other ones, but for some reason, just when she'd been distracted enough to stop thinking about her heartbreak for a little while, the preview of his message demanded her attention. She saw the first couple of lines:  _This really sucks Michonne. It really does. I understand..._  And so, her curiosity getting the best of her, she opened up their conversation thread, finding a wall of those rectangular gray bubbles, beseeching her to respond.

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

_Michonne._

_Is this real?_

_Baby where are you?_

_Just please respond if you're all  
_ _right._

_I don't wanna hear it from your_  
_parents, I wanna hear it from you.  
_ _Just answer the phone._

_Michonne._

_Michonne…_

_What the fuck, just answer me  
_ _once. Let's talk about this._

_Are you really doing this?_

_I'm not asking you to come back. If_  
_this was hell for you... and it seems_  
_like it was... then I want you to be_  
_free. But I also want a goodbye that_  
_didn't come scribbled on a fucking  
_ _piece of paper._

_MICHONNE._

_This really sucks Michonne. It really_  
_does. I understand why you had to_  
_go. If I were you and I carried a child_  
_inside my body for 8 months, I'd_  
_probably wanna fucking die if I were_  
_going through what we're going_  
_through. I don't have any room to_  
_judge how you respond to this. I get_  
_that. I always did. But I also always_  
_supported you and and whatever_  
_you needed from me. If I couldn't_  
_give it to you, well okay. But I think_  
_at the least, I deserve a_  
_conversation about it. I deserve_  
_more than you walking out on me_  
_and then refusing to talk to me._  
_What did I ever do but love you?_  
_Apologetic words about how I_  
_deserve better don't make me feel_  
_any fucking better. What would_  
_make me feel better is if you picked_  
_up the phone. That's literally all I'm  
_ _asking. Talk to me. Please._

Michonne took a deep breath as she stared at the latest message, his pained and understandably angry plea tugging at her emotions. She'd done well all day, distracted with her new life; she hadn't had the space to think too much about what she was trying to leave behind. And now, just like that, it was on her mind again. And he was absolutely right – after five years, he deserved more than this. But what was she supposed to do when she didn't have more to give?

Her fingers hovered over the screen's keyboard, trying to figure out a response that wouldn't draw her into a full conversation with him. She couldn't handle it; not now. She began typing –  _I ' m s o_  – but then stopped, erased it, then typed it again.  _I'm sorry_. It was all she had. She sent the message, turned off her phone, and stuffed it back in her pocket as she stood from the couch. It felt a bit like Groundhog's Day as she headed out of the door, the same way she had just half an hour prior.

She marched down the hill and over the bridge and trespassed into her neighbor's yard, following the grass path along the pond, until she reached his driveway, situated on the side of his house. She hadn't gotten this far before, so she wasn't sure where to go next, but opted for a rather steep flight of steps that she hoped led to his front door. Once she got to the top, she couldn't help but notice that he, too, had a set of rocking chairs sitting on his porch, and she decided that must be a Tennessee thing. But before she could knock, the door swung open, the man with the thick beard and pretty eyes startling her for the second time that day. "Oh," she greeted him, stepping back from the entryway.

"I heard you come up the stairs," he explained, again, sensing her tentativeness. "It's quiet around here."

"I've noticed," she nodded. In that moment, she realized she wasn't sure what the hell she was doing there. On the face of it, she just wanted to know where he did his shopping. But she'd be lying if she pretended it wasn't something else that brought her back down that hill. It was particularly baffling to her since her entire reason for choosing this place was so that she wouldn't have to be around people. But for whatever reason, she liked the way she felt when she was sitting in this stranger's grass, and for the few minutes that she was in his presence, the overwhelming sense of grief that perpetually invaded her thoughts seemed to take a break for a while. "Sorry to bother you. Again."

"This is the most action I've gotten in months, so I'm definitely not complainin'," he quipped, seizing the opportunity to ease the tension. He then realized that might've been a little too forward for only their second interaction. "That was a terrible joke," he shook his head. He leaned into the doorway of his home as he asked, "What can I do for you?"

She had to resist the urge to smile and instead answered his question. "I was actually... like I said, I just moved in up the road, and I realized I don't have any food. So I was wondering if there was any specific place you get your groceries? Nothing seems... especially... close." Her words hung in the air as her gaze unintentionally moved past him to see into his kitchen, observing a table with maybe a dozen fresh fish bodies sitting on a platter, and next to it, another plate containing their heads.

"Oh," he chuckled with recognition, as he had a similar reaction the first time he was in a situation where he needed batteries. "Yeah, the nearest place is Food City, about eight miles down the hill," he explained, referring to the mountain they were sitting on. "Not a huge selection, but it's adequate. Especially on those days when you don't feel like gutting fish," he pointed inside his home, "or the deer meat's still aging."

Michonne nodded, attempting to seem as though she related to anything he was saying. "Well I also need things like linen and... pots and pans. Is the closest Wal-Mart really almost an hour away?"

Rick laughed again, wondering who this woman was that moved into a house without pots and pans. "Did you come with nothin'?"

"I wasn't thinking about it," she shook her head, unwilling to delve into the story of how she ended up there in the first place. "I also didn't imagine it would require a full road trip to go buy some new stuff."

"Well, if you wanna get through the night, I have some pots and/or pants you can use," he said, turning inside, leaving her to follow. "But yeah, the nearest superstore like that is a pretty good drive. You'll probably wanna make a list so you don't have to make the trip twice."

Michonne was careful not to go any farther than the threshold, scanning his place from there. It appeared that his seemingly giant house was actually just one big room – kitchen, living area, and bedroom all in one – which made her especially hesitant to step inside. Not only was she questioning the floorplan of the house, thinking he had to have some secret dungeon hiding in all that extra space, but the thought of being in this stranger's bedroom freaked her out. "I'm okay," she declared before he could go to the trouble. "I'm sure I can find a McDonald's or something."

He turned to see that she wasn't following, which made him smile. She was an odd one. He liked that. "Well you're welcome to stay for dinner," he offered, knowing she likely would decline. But he would've been a fool not to suggest it. It wasn't every day, or any day really, that a beautiful woman showed up on his doorstep. "If you like crappie, I've got plenty," he gestured to his table.

"I appreciate that," she returned politely, doing her best to avoid that image of fish heads again. "But I should really get settled at my place." Even if she could admit to herself that this man's presence had comforted her earlier, for all she knew, he was a serial killer.

"All right," he shrugged. "But if you smell the fish on the grill and change your mind, feel free to come on up."

"I will," she lied. She turned to head back down the steps, but stopped herself when she heard his footsteps moving toward her. She wanted to see him walk one more time. "Thank you," she added, awkwardly waving to him.

"Don't forget toilet paper," Rick reminded her, following her to the staircase, just to make sure she got down safely. "And pillows."

She didn't turn or say anything to acknowledge the advice, but nodded, making a mental note for when she got back home. Her new home. She might not have thought about pillows on her own.

"And liquor," he called after her, an amused smirk on his face as he watched her walk away. He couldn't help but wonder what her story was, and given her aloofness, the likelihood that he'd ever get to hear it. But he had to believe that this beautiful, quiet stranger with the sad eyes had shown up at his door for a reason, and he was intrigued, to say the least.


	3. Here You Come Again

The following morning, Michonne took her new neighbor's advice and put together a comprehensive list of supplies she would need for her long-term stay – from food and kitchen items to toiletries and laundry necessities. She'd even thought about getting a little TV to hang in the bedroom, until she realized it was probably useless without cable. She wasn't even sure that it was possible to get cable up there. She'd jotted that down as another question to ask Rick the next time she saw him.

But until then, she would head into town, making her first stop at Food City, interested to see what they had to offer. Since it was close to home, she hoped to be pleasantly surprised by the selection, but alas, the produce pickings were slim. The leafy vegetables were often wilted and browning, including even the salad blends that came in the plastic containers. The carrots and corn were discolored, looking like they'd been waiting for some kind of attention. She did find a few bags of potatoes that seemed palatable. And the fruit display wasn't quite as bad – she walked away with nice bunches of strawberries and blueberries and a variety of apples that she could use for breakfast.

The meat and seafood section was filled with brands she'd never heard of but decided to try, just for the sake of having something in her refrigerator. She skipped out on the seafood altogether, unsure that she could trust what they were selling if they couldn't even keep fresh lettuce around. And with a national park nearby, she could only imagine how little business they got in that department. No, she was good there. If she got desperate, Rick's fishing hole was half a mile away. Chicken and beef were good enough for now.

Past that, Michonne combed through the entire store, a podcast playing in her ears to distract her from the rest of the world. She was way behind on all her favorite shows, so she had plenty to keep her mind occupied, even without the luxury of TV. That morning alone, she'd gone through two episodes of How Stuff Works and was now chuckling her way through the latest installment of The Read. It was all so painfully mundane and she was enjoying it. She liked filling her hours with these little tasks, not allowing her the space to think about anything else. She had definitely started to hate the place a little less.

By the time Michonne made it to checkout, she had a full cart of groceries. Granted, most of it was snack food lacking any nutritional value, but she still had a bit of a drive, with a few more stops to make, and figured she could stock up on veggies elsewhere. She was satisfied enough, and it was good to confirm that she wouldn't have to drive an hour if she needed a few items for sustenance.

She was very much in her own zone as she emptied her basket onto the conveyor belt; placing her items in the order that she wanted them, knowing full well they wouldn't be that way once they were bagged. She was just about to haul a case of water from the bottom of her cart when there was a soft squeeze on her shoulder, and she froze. Her stomach dropped. Paralyzed by the thought that she would turn around and find Negan staring back at her. It made no rational sense, so she wasn't sure why it was her first thought – perhaps because it was her biggest fear in that moment – but she was slow to confirm it either way. She pulled out her earbuds first, and then with a sharp inhale, let her neck do the work, allowing herself a peripheral view of the culprit. It was Rick. "Oh," she exhaled with relief as she faced him. "What?"

He chuckled at the fact that he'd obviously scared her for the third time in their short history and took a step back to give her some space. "Sorry," he submitted with a gentle nod. "I'd been callin' your name, but I guess you couldn't hear me," he signaled to the headphones he'd watched her pull from her ears. "I was just sayin' Hi."

Michonne nodded. She was inclined to say something about how maybe she was ignoring him on purpose, but she didn't want to encourage him to keep talking to her. They already lived close, and if she seemed too friendly, she could just imagine him getting comfortable enough to stop by unannounced. "Well… hi."

"It's good to see you again," he added, hoping that he wasn't coming off too eager. He was a pretty low-key guy, but she had a way of making him feel like he was doing too much.

She didn't really know how to respond to that when they'd clearly seen each other less than 24 hours ago. "Well, I'll… probably see you again at some point," she answered plainly. She was thankful when the belt began to move, forcing her to pay attention to it instead of Rick.

"I'm sure you will," he smirked. She was obviously desperate to get out of the conversation, so he left it at that, though his eyes stayed on her as she went through the motions of making – or rather, avoiding – small talk with the cashier. She was so amusingly awkward; closed off in a way that he didn't quite understand, but he liked. He wondered where she was from since he couldn't tell, not in the few words he'd eked out of her, but it certainly didn't seem like it was anywhere close. She clearly didn't believe in southern hospitality, for one.

"...Yeah, they say it might get up to about seventy today," the cashier was saying to her. She was a soft-spoken older woman with a striking short haircut, the name 'Carol' printed on her name tag. And oblivious to Michonne's disinterest, it seemed. "If it's seventy up here, I can only imagine how hot it is at lower elevation. Probably ninety-somethin' down there."

"Well, it is almost August," Michonne forced a smile.

"How long are you visiting for?" she wondered, noting her large haul of groceries. Most people that came through there stocked up on alcohol and a few minor items to get them through their vacations. Not a whole kitchen's worth of stuff.

"I'll be here a while," she answered vaguely. In part, because she didn't actually know the answer herself. But also, it was none of this woman's business.

"Oh yeah?" Carol replied, surprised by that news.

"That's the plan."

"You comin' from Atlanta?" she guessed.

Michonne had to physically resist the urge to roll her eyes in this woman's face. She'd gotten the same question from not one, but two people in the few hours she was at the university the day before, but tricked herself into not thinking about it too much. She was still relearning social graces and thought maybe she was overreacting. But now, three of the six people she'd met in this town had asked, and she was annoyed. "No," she curtly responded, practically throwing her bags into her cart.

Rick watched her pay for her items and rush off, clearly bothered by the exchange. "She's like that with everyone," he joked with Carol as he stepped forward with his items – a loaf of bread and some glue. "Don't take it personally."

"I wasn't going to," she assured him, scanning his items. "People in pain tend not to communicate very well."

Rick raised an eyebrow at her assessment, wondering if she somehow knew something he didn't. But there was definitely a sadness about Michonne that was perhaps more obvious than he realized. At least it wasn't just him that'd noticed. "I guess that's true," he granted. He handed over a $20 dollar bill, but observed that his neighbor left her card in the card reader.

"I've never seen you in here on a weekday," Carol noted, staring at him as he gazed out of the exit. "Everything okay with you?"

He frowned this time, realizing that this woman was obviously just nosy as hell. "Everything's fine," he chuckled tensely, accepting his change. "Thank you."

She smiled at him sweetly, deciding to let him believe that if he wanted to. "Have a good day."

"You, too," he finished. He collected his bag and headed out quickly in hopes of catching Michonne before she could take off – she was just a few spots away in the nearly empty parking lot, loading up a dark gray Lexus. "Michonne, you forgot this," he called out to her before he reached her, careful not to surprise her yet again.

She immediately rolled her eyes at the sound of Rick's voice, convinced that he was now going to stalk her for the rest of her life. That was until she turned around to see him handing over her Wells Fargo card. She instinctively looked over to the store, recognizing what she'd done. "I'm a bit of a mess right now," she admitted, shaking her head as she gratefully accepted her card. "Thank you."

"Happens to the best of us," he smirked, glad to see that her mood had lightened a little. As she opened the trunk of her car, he decided to push his luck and continue the conversation. "Kinda seems like you're from Atlanta," he teased, pointing out her Georgia license place with the DeKalb County decal.

"That's beside the point," she retorted, forcing herself not to smile at the fact that he'd noticed. "It's a microaggressive question that doesn't deserve an honest answer."

"I mean, okay..." He shrugged, hesitant to deny that, "But it  _is_  the biggest city that close."

"And full of black people," she quipped, rolling her eyes again.

"She didn't mean any harm," Rick maintained, unsure why he was so adamant about defending some lady he'd never even noticed before. He supposed he just didn't want Michonne to feel any worse.

"Most people don't mean any harm. That doesn't make it any less racist."

"Fair enough," he conceded – he was out of his depth here, and certainly not about to tell a black woman about racism. "I just hope she didn't ruin your day."

"I'm fine," she promised; she appreciated his thoughtfulness, but again, made sure not to show it. "Honestly, I don't really claim Atlanta as the place I'm 'from'," she went on. "I moved there for grad school and just… ended up staying."

Rick was almost taken aback by the fact that she was offering up information without him having to pry it out of her. He was reluctant to ask anything else, for fear of scaring her away. But he did. "Is it okay to ask where you're actually from?" he posed carefully.

"Iowa," she answered without thinking too much about it. "This tiny town called Grinnell."

"Huh," he chuckled lightly. "I don't think I've ever met anyone from Iowa."

"You're not the first person to tell me that."

"I'm from Nashville," he intimated with a nod, squinting as the morning sun beamed down on them. "And it  _is_  the place I call home, even though I'm actually from out near Memphis."

"So you've made your away across the entire state," she noted with a small smile.

He grinned in response, surprised that he never came to that conclusion on his own. "Yeah, I guess I have." He felt like he should add that he didn't actually live there in Gatlinburg, but was visiting to pass the time, but that was probably more information than she was interested in.

"Well, thank you for this," Michonne held up her card, still a bit flummoxed by the fact that she'd left it in the store. "I'm headed off to run a few more errands," she added, figuring he'd like to know that she was taking his advice. "So I'll see you around…"

"Right," he smiled back politely. The way she managed to turn it on and off so quickly was so fascinating to him. But he certainly got the picture and began to back away, but not before offering her one more piece of guidance. "By the way, you know you stole that water, right?"

She opened her mouth to respond, to tell him she hadn't even gotten any water, but before she could misspeak, it dawned on her that a full case of Dasani was sitting in the bottom of her cart. Unpaid for, indeed. "Shit," she gasped.

"I didn't take you for a thief, so I thought I should let you know."

"You could've said so earlier," she sent back, shaking her head at the entire situation. Her first full day in a new town and she was already about to make a terrible name for herself.

"Yes," he agreed, "I could've." He smiled to himself as he headed off to his truck.

And Michonne watched him leave, less annoyed and more amused than she wanted herself to be. Not only did she smile at the fact that she got to see Rick walk away, but even managed a little laugh as she shut down her car and prepared to wheel the water back inside.

At the other end of the lot, Rick had just hopped into his truck and cranked it up, the loud purr of the engine almost managing to drown out the sound and feel of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He noticed just in time to miss the call from Lori, which he hoped was actually from Carl, so he made quick work of calling them right back. His fingers anxiously tapped against the steering wheel as he waited for an answer. It was a long series of rings before an unfamiliar, animated voice emerged on the other end.

"Hey, Rick," said the male voice with a pronounced twang, and he could only conclude that it was Shane. "Lori just ran to answer the door; hold on just a minute, man."

"O…kay," he returned, taking care to keep his equable tone, despite wanting to throw his phone against the windshield. The familiarity that Shane greeted him with was jarring, if not infuriating; then magnified by Carl's hearty laughter in the background. It made Rick ache. He loved the sound, but the small part of him hated that it had nothing to do with him; that some stranger was getting to experience his son's joy. He let out a sigh, assuming he'd been set down on some counter or end table to wait for Lori, as he listened to the household noises. Carl calling for Shane to watch him do… something – some move he learned in karate, undoubtedly, but it still tore at Rick, not knowing what exactly.

If there was a bright side, at least Shane sounded entertained by him. Involved. He was invested in Carl, which was probably the most Rick could hope for in this situation. If Lori had to be with someone else – and it was apparent at this point that she did – he was relieved that it was someone who treated Carl well. If that laughter meant that he was okay, then he'd deal with the heartache. It was another minute or so before he could hear Shane tell Lori that he was on the phone, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation.

"Hey, you," she greeted him, breathless after rushing for the phone. "Sorry about that. I've been trying to catch this FedEx guy for two weeks now. He keeps dropping off the neighbors' Blue Apron over here."

"Did you need somethin'?" he questioned, ignoring her attempt at small talk. "I was just gettin' ready to drive when you called."

"Ah," she nodded to herself, knowing him and his old-fashioned ways didn't believe in driving and talking on the phone. "Well I don't mean to keep you," she said. "We were just hoping…" She started to speak and then stopped herself, taking a few steps away from the family room; away from the commotion of Shane and Carl. " _I_  was just… wondering if you'd mind me having Carl for an extra day."

"Lori…" Rick sighed. Her initial use of 'we' already told him what this was really about, but her attempt at fixing it up only managed to annoy him.

"I know. I know," she nodded into the phone. "You're only getting weekends right now, and here I go cutting those shorter."

"Then why are you asking?"

"We're going to the kayak race at Cumberland River on Saturday afternoon, and I wanted to take Carl."

"You mean Shane does," he guessed.

"We both do," she countered. "And you can just keep him an extra night. Bring him back Tuesday, if it works for your schedule."

"And I'm assuming Carl wants to go because you've already told him about it."

"It came up," Lori admitted. "I called to rent the kayak, and… I mean, you know how attentive he is."

Rick replied with a derisive chuckle, knowing there was no way to say no to this. No way that didn't make him seem like a selfish, shitty parent. "Would've been nice if you'd maybe asked me to take him myself. Given me any kind of an option here."

"Like you'd really wanna spend the day there with me and Shane?"

"Maybe not, but you and I both know that I have to agree to this or I'm the bad guy."

She nodded. He was right – she knew he could never. Rick wouldn't know how to be a bad guy if he tried. He'd give up halfway through due to the guilt. "I swear I'm not trying to take advantage here. But I can see why it looks that way."

"Well that doesn't do me much good," he sighed, letting his head fall against his headrest as he stared at the ceiling of his car. "I guess I'll see you Saturday night."

"Thank you, Rick," she spoke sincerely. "I know I don't deserve your kindness, but I appreciate it."

He rolled his eyes, also knowing that to be true, and that his kindness was for Carl's sake, not hers; but he was of course too nice to even say that. "All right," he said softly. "I should go."

"Enjoy your little cabin," she softly chuckled.

"Yeah." He scoffed quietly at her condescension as he ended the call, and finally backed out of his space. He spotted Michonne returning to her car with her presumably paid-for water, and in an instant, he'd forgotten about Lori. And he figured maybe it wasn't so bad that he had an extra day to spend around there.

* * *

By the time the weekend arrived, and Michonne had been in Tennessee for two full days, she had a fully-stocked and decorated home. Her landlord seemed perfectly sweet and all, but god she had terrible taste. So she'd gone to work on improving the place, starting with removing the ugly mint-green window treatments and replacing them with sleek light-filtering shades. She traded the big black leather couch for a more modern sectional, the color of oatmeal, to match the wood. She'd assembled it herself, which seemed near impossible when she started, then became an unexpected point of pride once it was done. She bought new shower curtains and towels and swapped out the patchwork quilt on her bed with a pretty lavender and gray duvet. And it pretty quickly turned into a place she didn't mind living in. Maybe she could even say she liked it?

And after almost two full days of running around, she was exhausted, which was such a welcome feeling after months of hardly being able to sleep. She plopped down on her new couch with her laptop, thinking she could find something on Netflix to lull her into a nap, but instead, there was an email waiting for her that managed to instantly rejuvenate her. The position at the University of Tennessee was hers, if she wanted it.

"Oh my god," she grinned at the news, talking to herself. She hopped up from the couch to find her phone, her first inclination to call Negan, but stopped in her tracks when she remembered just where she was and why she couldn't do that. She could call her parents, but she'd already spoken to them for the day, and had another call planned for tomorrow, which just seemed like a bit much. So after a bit of deliberation, she opted to reach out to her best friend for a long overdue chat. And it was nearly 4:00 pm on a Friday, so Michonne was fairly certain she didn't have to worry about interrupting her working.

"Bitch, you got some nerve," Sasha answered her phone, confirming Michonne's theory while also making her smile.

"Hey, you," she replied, feeling like she was somewhere close to home again as her bestie's voice filled the room via speakerphone.

"Don't 'hey you' me," she shot back, still pretending to be upset with her. In reality, she was just glad to hear her voice. "Where the hell are you?"

Michonne looked around her newly-decorated cabin and shook her head. "I'm being honest when I say that I'm basically nowhere," she chuckled quietly. "But to narrow it down, I'm somewhere in Tennessee."

"Nashville?" Sasha questioned, thinking of the nearest city anyone would actually want to visit.

"No, Sasha."

"Dollywood?"

"It's not… too far from there," she admitted, deciding that her secret would be safe with her. "But really like, in the mountains, in the woods, middle of nowhere."

"Michonne," she sighed, baffled by the relocation, among so many other things, but she'd made the decision not to badger her. She hadn't been herself in months, and nothing else seemed to help, so if this was what it took to get her back, she wasn't going to argue with it. In truth, she already sounded more alive in their 60-second conversation than she had since March.

"I know it sounds crazy…"

"It doesn't," Sasha was quick to assure her.

"I mean, you don't really have room to talk," Michonne joked, though her tone was reserved as it came out, "so I don't know how much that means coming from you."

"Oh, that's what we're doing?" she cackled, so happy to hear her friend teasing her. "Because I didn't disappear for a whole week, thank you very much."

"Fine, a weekend. But you went and married some girl none of us even knew, which I'm pretty sure is worse, so…"

"I can't stand you," Sasha continued to laugh. "The longer you stay wherever you are, the less shit you can talk about me, so I hope you're keeping that in mind."

"I am acknowledging that," she nodded, her smile weakening as she realized that Sasha wouldn't be able to stop by for her weekly Saturday visit, where they gorged on all the leftovers from the delicious meals Negan made throughout the week. "But I really think I need to be here."

"Okay, sure, but for how long? Where are you even staying?"

"I rented a house. Just finished decorating it," she added, gazing upon her work once more. "In fact, I called you because I just found out that they're gonna let me teach a class at the local university, so… I'm gonna be here for at least a semester."

Sasha nearly choked on the cookie she'd been eating. "What?"

"What, what?"

"A semester? As in a whole four months?"

"At least..."

"I thought this was gonna be, like, a vacation." Maybe an extended one, but certainly not more than six weeks.

"I don't know what it is," Michonne admitted, "I don't think it's forever, but I needed to go, and this place seems to be working out okay, so I'm gonna stay as long as I need to."

"So you're just living in this place on your own?" she pressed. "I can't even come see you?"

"Maybe at some point, but I  _just_  got here, Sash. I'm still trying to get used to it all."

Sasha sighed, unsure how she felt about all this now. She could understand her leaving for a few weeks. She even understood needing to break up with Negan – hell, she was surprised that hadn't happened sooner, really. Couples rarely survived such tragedies. But to be gone for months? " _Months_ , Michonne?"

"Nothing else was working."

"I know..."

"I'm sorry..."

"I mean... who are you gonna watch Game of Thrones with?" she questioned, trying and failing not to sound too sad.

"Oh god, I forgot all about it," Michonne realized with a tiny gasp. "I don't even have a TV here."

"What?" Sasha chirped.

"I know," she shook her head. "I'm gonna have to watch it on my computer."

"That's gross."

"Well, there is a guy down the street," she added, thinking of Rick; unable to remember whether she'd spotted a screen when she peeked into his home. "Maybe he has one."

"A guy?" Sasha's ears perked up at that news, in part because it meant Michonne was out there meeting people, meeting guys, which sounded good for her mental well-being. And quiet as it was kept, she never thought Michonne and Negan were  _quite_  the right match in the first place. So if she was finding some other guy to occupy her time, it wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world. "Is he a cute guy?"

"Sasha, I'm not thinking about that right now."

"He's cute," she confirmed from her statement. "That's interesting."

"It's really not."

"It will be when you get lonely up there in the mountains alone."

"For all I know, he doesn't have a TV either," she chuckled. "I really don't know anything about him, other than his address. And he knows how to fish. And eats deer, apparently."

"You wouldn't have brought him up if you hadn't been thinking about him, though."

"I'm thinking about where I can find a TV."

"Okay, girl."

"You're a mess," Michonne snickered.

"All I know is you sound better," Sasha submitted seriously. "You're laughing, and you're talking about a guy, and I like it. So I'm gonna do anything that pushes you in the direction of living again."

"Okay," Michonne accepted with another nod.

"But can I tell you something you don't wanna hear?"

"Do I have to listen?"

"Just come back and say goodbye to your fiancé," she suggested. "After everything he's been through, he deserves a face-to-face goodbye."

Michonne exhaled heavily, suddenly wishing she hadn't made this call. "So you still hold the crazy crown for sure, just so you know."

"I'm serious, 'Chonne. You ended your engagement with the equivalent of a text message, and while you left to heal and meet cute guys in the woods, he's been left with the pieces of your relationship. On top of what you lost. You know that's not fair."

"Alright," she rolled her eyes, hating that her friend was so obviously right. "You don't have to flex your writing muscles on me."

"Clearly, I do."

"I'll think about it," she said seriously. "I don't know about coming back to Atlanta and all that, but I'll consider talking to him."

"I guess that's a start," Sasha granted with a small sigh. "I know you haven't felt like yourself in a long time, but this isn't who you wanna be either."

"Of course it's not," Michonne huffed. "Nobody  _wants_  to blow up their own life just so they feel something other than empty. I don't  _want_  to wake up already feeling tired and unmotivated. Negan treated me like a  _queen_  and I could barely look at him. Of course that's not who I wanna be."

"Okay okay," she cut in before she could go into a rant. She could hear the misery creeping back into her voice, and that was the last thing she wanted. She'd clearly pushed her too much. "I didn't mean to kill your vibe, bitch."

"Well you did. So… I should go."

"Michonne."

"I just wanted to hear your voice and let you hear mine," she finished.

"Michonne, you better not hang up on me..."

"I'm not hanging up on you. I'm saying goodbye." And with that, she ended the call, the room suddenly quiet again, leaving her with her thoughts. She'd done so well all day – managed to get excited about her new job, and planned to have an even better weekend. She had designs on heading down to the fishing hole to give that whole thing a try; there were a couple of research papers in her inbox that sounded like good reading, especially in preparation for the syllabus she wanted to teach. She felt good about some things in her life for the first time in a long time, and just like that, it was gone.

* * *

An hour later, Michonne was asleep on her couch – her first good sleep, in pure silence, in ages. Which was likely why she was awoken so easily by the faintest sound – a buzzing that seemed to permeate the air outside. As she came to from her nap, her first thought was that a helicopter was flying overhead, but it was quickly replaced by the realization that it was some kind of power tool. A chainsaw? A jackhammer? Did they work on the roads this far up in the mountains? Annoyed by the interruption, she pulled herself up from the sofa and went to investigate.

She made it outside to find that the streets were predictably empty, and was able to trace the sound down to Rick's place. "Of course," she sighed to herself.  _Of course_  because it should've been obvious – he was the only other person in the vicinity. And of course she was going to use that as a reason to go talk to him, because she was too stubborn to go down there without the guise of a 'reason'.

So she headed on down the hill, ignoring the fact that she was in her ratty, around-the-house t-shirt and leggings she wore for fixing up the place. Clothes that weren't meant to see the light of day. But the incessant noise, and sure, maybe some small, strange desire to see Rick again distracted her from that.

When she reached his home, she indeed found him working in his garage, surrounded by a jigsaw and several planks of wood. He had an old Chevy truck parked in the driveway, which fit his whole rugged, dirty aesthetic to a tee, making her smirk. But it quickly faded as she got closer to him, her eyes drawn to his upper body as he worked his saw. The temperature was moderately warm, but his tanned arms were glistening with sweat. He wore a dark brown shirt that fit his form well – almost too well – allowing her to see every line and curve of his back. His thick curls were damp and flopping around his face with every movement. As she continued toward him, she reflexively gripped the golden M on the chain that adorned her neck, fiddling with it until she was close.

"Hey," Michonne called out to him. She attempted to wait for breaks in the noise, but he didn't seem to notice. "Rick!" she continued to shout.

He was oblivious.

She was loath to get too close, what with the giant blade he was working with; so she improvised a way to get his attention by pulling her hair tie from her wrist and throwing it past what she hoped was his line of sight. When he finally turned, visibly surprised, she waved at him shyly.

"Hey," he grinned at her unexpected appearance. He turned off his machine and wiped his hands on his dingy jeans before moving to the threshold of the garage to greet her. "Happy Friday."

"What the hell are you doing?" she wondered, observing the mess in the background. Wood was quite literally everywhere.

"Oh, I'm makin' a bear box," he nodded, rather excited by the project. "Apparently, they're only gonna pick up the garbage every two weeks once fall starts, so I thought I'd get started on this now."

She nodded as if she understood what that meant, and figured she could probably guess, but she thought it best to ask because she didn't like where her assumption landed her. "And… what's a bear box?"

"It's kind of a locker for your garbage," he explained casually. He pointed to where he'd erected a large part of the structure so she could see its size. "So the bears can't get to it."

"I'm sorry, the what now?" she leaned in, thinking – hoping – she was mishearing him. Jeanne sure as hell didn't mention that shit.

He chuckled at her clear dismay for the information, but nodded to confirm it. "You're not in Atlanta anymore, darlin'."

" _Bears_?" she repeated, still in disbelief. "Have you ever seen one?"

"Nah," he assured her. "But I've seen what they can do to a trash can, so…"

"I… was not expecting to come down here and find out I'm living amongst bears."

"Well it's probably better that you know than to go wandering around here at night."

"I guess that's true," she frowned. But all she could think about was how she'd been considering one of those houses without any doors. The owners should really mention things like this in their ads.

"I can make you one," Rick offered. He rested his finger in one of his belt loops as he leaned against his home, gazing at her, and he realized he hadn't the slightest clue why she was there. All while hoping she didn't have a reason.

"I was actually coming down to complain about the noise," she smiled self-consciously, "so it'd probably be hypocritical of me to ask you to make one for me."

"That's valid," he allowed, appreciating her candor. He started to nod in agreement as a smile claimed his lips. "But we're all a little hypocritical sometimes, don't you think?"

"I mean, it would certainly be nice to not wake up and see a bear digging through my trash," she conceded.

"Then you got it. I can give it to you for about… $250," he submitted, peering at her with that intense blue stare as he waited for her response.

Michonne physically recoiled, taken aback by the price – the fact that there was a price at all. "Oh..."

"I mean, this is my line of work, so I can't just give it away."

Of course the guy with the Jesus beard was a carpenter. "Yeah, no, of course," she shook her head awkwardly. "I can write you a check today? Or I'm sure I can get to the bank sometime this weekend..."

"Michonne, I'm fucking with you," he grinned, his eyes suddenly glittering with his amusement.

She closed her eyes, feeling silly for believing him. She was really not on her game these days. "Right."

"I mean this is my line of work, but… I also like it. Keeps my mind busy."

Her sharp gaze darted up at him, feeling like her words had just come out of his mouth, and she quietly wondered why it was that he wanted – or needed? – to keep his mind busy. She nodded once more, letting him know that she understood that feeling all too well. "Well thank you," she eventually answered, her voice small.

"And I'll also try to be quieter," Rick added. He felt like he struck a chord there – something in her eyes said he had – so he deliberately pulled back.

"You're fine," Michonne shook her head. "Unless the noise attracts the bears."

"I think it actually keeps 'em away," he leaned in to whisper.

"Well then. By all means, have at it." She chuckled at the way she'd totally changed her tune, and her attitude for that matter, since she laid eyes on him. She didn't know what it was about him, but she liked the way she felt around him. "So I'll see you later, I guess."

He waited until she turned to leave before replying, "Later for dinner?" He decided to push his luck again since she seemed to be in an okay mood, and he clearly had an evening to spare. And really, he was tiring of these little two-minute consults that always left him wanting more of her. He wanted to have a conversation; not spurts of dialogue, thanks to them coming up with reasons to talk to one another.

She turned back to him with a smirk playing on her face as she contemplated the offer. She had to admit that the fish he grilled the other night smelled damn good. And she'd sat in her house eating Pringles for dinner because she was too obstinate and too fucked up to accept his invite then. And moreover, he made her laugh. She couldn't remember the last time she laughed genuinely – not at some old episode of Golden Girls or whatever means she used to distract herself these days. But a genuine laugh thanks to an enjoyable interaction with a real person. And Rick had done that for her twice now. So maybe dinner with him wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. "Okay," she agreed, staring back at him, knowing he'd be confounded by her response.

And surprised he was, but he did his best not to show it, biting his lip to keep from smiling. "Okay," he replied. "I'll see you at seven."


	4. Never Make a Move Too Soon

"You want anything to drink? I've got water, juice, some wine, beer, whatever you want."

Michonne hesitantly redirected her gaze from the gorgeous view Rick's cabin boasted, and turned toward him and his question. He looked so different to her in the glow of the evening. He wore a nice denim shirt that managed to bring out the already striking blue of his eyes, with dark blue jeans that fit his slim frame almost too well. It was a chore to tear her eyes from him; to focus whenever he spoke. "You have anything stronger?" she eventually asked, hoping so. She would need more than wine to get through the foreignness of prolonged social interaction.

"Um... yeah. Sure." He shut his refrigerator door and pointed her to the liquor cabinet just beside her. "Everything's in there."

She nodded at his direction and moved to explore the bar, which was beautifully designed, she noticed first. Made of a rich, dark wood that she could only assume was mahogany, with a surface so perfectly shiny, she was scared to mark it with her fingerprints. Everything in his place was like that, all the pieces so elegantly crafted. Even the stand that held the television – and yes, his television was the first thing she noticed upon walking in – was splendid. "Did you make all this stuff?" she wondered, running her finger along the smooth edge of the cabinet. She knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it for some reason. The idea that he was this good with his hands was a little fascinating, she supposed.

"Yeah," he answered with a distracted sigh, his focus more on their meal than her musings. "I figure, why buy it when you can make it?"

"Indeed," she agreed, finally deciding that whiskey would supplement her meal. She couldn't think of anything more appropriate than Jack Daniels on her first Friday night in Tennessee. She poured it neat and began to meander around the open space, unable to ignore his stunning bedframe – partly because it sat in the middle of the room, but mainly, it was just so gorgeous. It was one of those Fujian platform beds made of a wood so dark it looked black. And its design was very sleek and sophisticated, which didn't really fit the image she had of him. "You made this too?"

He smirked at the fact that she was clearly impressed. "All of it," he confirmed with a sheepish laugh. "I made all of it."

"I've never been particularly good at crafts," she admitted, taking a sip of her drink. "I can barely cut along a straight line with a pair of scissors."

"And what is it you do for a living?" he wondered, smiling at her anecdote.

She turned to the sound of him chopping at vegetables, which managed to immediately remind of her of Negan – he was always in the kitchen. "I'm a data scientist," she answered, deliberately leaving it at that.

"And… what does that mean?"

She smiled. She liked that he asked. Most people outside of her job had no idea what it meant, but rarely actually asked for clarification, either uninterested or too concerned with pretending they did know. "Without going into the boring details, it's analytics," she said. "It's basically a mixture of statistics and computer science."

He nodded as he watched her make her way around his home. She removed the long gray cardigan she'd been wearing, leaving her in a black tank top and jeans that allowed him an unobstructed view of her many sets of curves – the ones in her muscular arms stealing his attention first. He would've guessed she was an Olympic runner before a scientist, which just made her all the more compelling. He wondered what he'd see if he could look into her mind. "And what if I wanna hear the boring details?"

"You don't," she assured him with a self-conscious smile this time. "People's eyes tend to start glazing over when I talk about my job."

"Well now I'm really interested." He stopped what he was doing in order to show as much, leaning against his counter as he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to go on.

"Fine," she rolled her eyes, already knowing how this conversation would end. "So I work at the CDC," she started, her eyes reflexively roaming down his slim frame.

"I'm with you so far," he nodded.

"And my job is to look at trends in diseases and analyze if and how they affect a population, and I do that by creating algorithms that are able to examine those things mathematically. For example, I don't know if you know anything about the Zika outbreak, but there was a concentrated cluster of the virus in Miami. So we used what's called a hotspot analysis to identify characteristics of that area to figure out what exactly was contributing to the outbreak."

"I see…"

"And I have another study that I'm working on, where we're looking at yellow fever, and how the lack of access to the vaccine contributes to its dispersion," she went on, missing the fact that Rick's eyes had, indeed, begun to glaze over. "And actually, now that I'm here, I was looking to teach a class at UT on this subject and introduce this method called machine learning to their undergrad students." She was talking about a mile a minute for the first time in a long time, even using her hands to express herself in the animated way that she used to. "It's a course that focuses on the link between gentrification and public health, using geospatial signatures, and I just found out today that they're giving me the job, so I'm pretty excited to dive into that."

"You sound excited," he grinned at her, genuinely amused by her geekiness. It was the most she'd said in their few conversations combined, and he loved the he idea that a woman who looked like her was also a total science nerd. "Granted, I have no idea what you're talkin' about," he admitted. "But I liked hearin' you say it."

She hated that his accent made her ears perk up, his deep drawl feeling warm like the whiskey she was nursing. "You probably say that to all the girls," she joked, an attempt at downplaying his flattery.

"I don't have any girls," he promised, "and I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

She tried to hold his gaze once it landed on her, but she couldn't, feeling like she was getting lost in it. She turned away, taking another gulp of her drink as she continued slowly around the room, a covered structure in the corner near the balcony catching her eye. A hot tub? "A hot tub?" she spoke out loud, chuckling at the mere idea.

"Now that, I didn't build," he sent back, hearing the judgement in her voice. "Came with the house."

"Have you ever used it?"

"Not myself." He was placing silverware and condiments on the dining table, his footsteps sounding like a soft drum beat against the hardwood floors as he walked. "My son seems to think it's cool, though."

Michonne turned toward him sharply, feeling like she'd been punched square in the chest by his revelation. "You have a son?"

"Yeah. Carl." He glanced back to her, her expression giving him pause as he turned off the stove. It felt like a record had scratched, and he wasn't sure why. "Is that okay?"

"It's fine," she shook her head. "It just never occurred to me." She finished her drink and tramped across the room to make herself another one.

"He lives in Nashville," Rick explained, figuring some of her confusion came from the fact that he wasn't there now. "His mom and I share custody."

She nodded, though she was now the one uninterested in the gory details. It occurred to her that that meant he was probably divorced, and he didn't look old enough to be divorced long, so he probably had some baggage he was dealing with. She didn't like baggage. She had too much of her own; didn't have space for anyone else's.  _Just eat your dinner and go_ , she said to herself.

"He's eight," he went on to say as he continued to set up the table. "Goin' on about twenty, though."

"What's for dinner?" she asked, dying for a subject change. She also realized she had no idea what she was about to sit down to.

"Just a little steak and potatoes," he submitted from the kitchen, where he was already carefully plating each of the freshly seared strips. "I figured you weren't ready for venison just yet."

She turned back to him with a small smile, appreciating that more than she would say. She was still trying to wrap her head around the whole bear thing he'd informed her of earlier. "You could've made what you wanted," she offered. "I would've eaten it."

"You probably would've," he gathered, "but I like to accommodate my guests, if I can."

"So polite," she smirked. She was reminded of her ex-fiancé once again, thinking about how his family treated everyone like family, no matter who you were. Which, in the end, meant they didn't give a shit what you wanted to eat – you had what everyone else was having.

He smiled awkwardly in reply, unsure how to receive that. She made it sound like a flaw. "Next time, I'll try to be more inconsiderate."

She went to take her seat at the small table, set just outside of the kitchen area, where an arugula salad sat in the middle of it. She quietly wondered where he got his vegetables, but as the liquor began to take hold, it didn't come to mind to actually ask him. "So did you learn to cook because you moved to the middle of nowhere, or did you always know how?"

"I think I've always known a few things." He served her a plate of New York strip topped with cherry tomatoes and a side of potatoes o'brien, and she looked at him like it was still moving on the platter. "What's wrong?"

"No, it looks really good," she chuckled, unsure why she was so surprised. "I just… I dunno what I was expecting."

"You didn't think you would like it," he guessed, laughing too as he took his seat.

"I didn't know," she repeated herself, trying to make it sound less judgmental.

"Well, I hope it's as good as it looks." He watched as she served herself some salad, and he noted her empty glass, wondering whether she'd actually finished two drinks in the short time she'd been there or if he imagined the second one. "Did you want some water… or somethin' else to drink?" he asked.

"I'm good," she obliviously returned, more focused on grinding black pepper over her salad. "It smells so good, too."

"Bon appetit," he submitted with a quick nod before cutting into his steak. A stiff silence washed over them as they started on their food, leaving only the sound of their silverware clinking against their plates.

"My boyfriend used to cook for me," Michonne commented absently. It wasn't until the words were hanging in the air that she recognized that she said them out loud.

Rick looked up from his meal, questioning whether that was an invitation to prod her for more. He wasn't sure if this was a sad story – maybe he was dead now or something – or if it was meant to say something else, like maybe he could be her boyfriend at some point in the future. "Was he good?"

"The best," she admitted with a wistfulness in her tone. God, she felt bad for leaving the way she did. "But this is good, too."

"Oh, thanks," he accepted, his tone and smile both sarcastic.

"You'll see," she insisted, her mouth full of potatoes. "This plate's gonna be empty."

"You don't have to clear it to spare my feelings…"

"I'm not. I'm gonna clear it because it's good."

He laughed at the way she had no shame about talking with her mouth full. He caught himself staring, but goddamn if she wasn't absolutely gripping, before returning to his meal. "So you said you  _work_  at the CDC? As in present tense?" he recalled from her earlier spiel. "Does that mean they sent you here on some kinda work assignment at UT?"

"Oh. No." She chuckled, realizing she was going to have to be more forthcoming if her story was going to make any sense to him. "I took a leave of absence from work."

"To come  _here_?"

"I needed a break," she nodded, her mouth full once again. "I had a lot going on in my home life, and at a certain point, I just had to get away from it."

Rick ignored every instinct that told him not to pry and decided to just ask the question. "A lot like what?"

"Just… you know," she shrugged. She was certain she wouldn't be sharing those details with him – the whole point of having dinner with him, of being around him, was that he didn't know her whole sad story. He had no reason to pity her, no motive to suggest she talk to Negan. He had nothing to do with her real life, and she intended to keep it that way. "Sometimes life happens and it's more than you can take."

He nodded at that sentiment, knowing all too well what she meant. "My girlfriend of a nearly a decade cheated on me," he confessed between bites. "She's with him now. Which means my son is with him now… as we speak. And it drives me fuckin' crazy."

She smiled sympathetically at him. "You don't seem crazy."

"I'm good at hiding it," he joked with his own shrug. "I found out a year ago, and we've been fallin' apart and figuring it out ever since, but… I come here because I need to get away too, so I get it." He sighed, knowing he was probably oversharing.

Michonne felt as though he was looking for something – something she didn't necessarily have to give, so she was at a loss for any type of meaningful response. "I was with my boyfriend for five years," she spoke quietly, "and it's been hard enough getting used to being without him. So I can't imagine what ten would be like."

"It's probably not much different," he rationalized. "Time doesn't matter so much. Once you get past a certain point, that person is just a part of you, don't you think?"

"That's a scary thought."

He smirked in agreement. "That's relationships."

"Forgive me if this is too forward to ask, but is there a reason you didn't get married after so long?" she questioned, searching his face for a reaction before he could respond. "Not that you needed to be, but most people…"

"No, I wanted to be," he confessed, stabbing at his steak as he spoke. "After we had Carl, I thought it was almost inevitable. But she just… never did. Felt like the commitment was enough."

"Well obviously not," she retorted wryly, then immediately wished she could take it back. "I'm so sorry," she gasped.

"No, it was funny," he nodded, a small smile on his lips.

"I thought so, but then I realized I should probably know you a little better before I make cracks about your ex." She smiled at his smile, the way it grew wider as he swallowed his food, which told her he really did find it funny.

"Maybe on the second date," he playfully agreed.

"This isn't a date," she sent back seriously, her eyebrows raised to highlight her tone.

He nodded, feeling like he'd just been reprimanded. "I was kidding, but it's good to know where I stand." He traded his fork for his beer, his eyes staying on her as he took a sip. "If it's not too forward for me to ask," he started to say as he finished swallowing, "how long have you and your boyfriend been broken up?"

It took her a moment to decide just how truthful to be. "Not long," she said ambiguously. She avoided his stare by adding another tongful of salad to her plate. "We should've broken up months ago, but neither one of us could bring ourselves to do it."

"Because you just grew apart?"

"Honestly, I'd say we weren't growing at all. We were at a standstill, trying to pretend we were happy, and it just… it drove us insane. Or me, at least."

Rick nodded, feeling like he could see that in her. It explained that oddness that he liked so much – which made him like her even more, somehow. "Was it a bad breakup?" he asked, his voice turning quiet.

Michonne inwardly recounted the way that she left Negan – with that note and likely a mountain of guilt to go with it – and she shook her head. The shame began to wash over her and she desperately needed another drink to drown it out. "The worst," she intimated, standing from her chair to find his liquor cabinet again. "Can I get you anything?"

"I should be askin' you that," he remarked with a light chuckle, peering at her as she moved across the room. "But no, I'm good with my beer."

"I wish you would drink with me so I didn't have to feel like a lush," she said as she generously poured herself some more Jack. "I mean you're the one that suggested the alcohol in the first place."

"I'm drinkin'," he chuckled, raising his glass as if to prove it. "I didn't think it had to be hard liquor for it to count."

"If you're gonna insist on talking about past relationships, then it should be hard liquor."

"I wasn't  _insisting_  on anything." He laughed again, nervously this time. "I thought we were just talkin'." Though he couldn't pretend he hadn't noticed the way she seemed to steer the conversation away from anything too personal. She had a wall up, and whiskey seemed to be its reinforcement. "We can talk more about your job, if you'd like." That seemed to be the only thing she genuinely enjoyed speaking at length about.

"I'm gonna be teaching classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays," she revealed, unknowingly proving his point. "Did I mention that already?"

"You didn't," he assured her, smiling warmly as she reclaimed her seat. "UT Knox is a nice little drive from here…"

"I know. But I figure twice a week isn't so bad."

"And an hour is probably a pretty normal commute in Atlanta, huh?"

"I lived four miles from my job," she shrugged, smiling tipsily as she went to resume her food. "But I guess it'll be nice to get to know the area."

He nodded, internally wondering how long it was that she planned to stay. But that was probably too personal a question, so he refrained from asking. "It gets busy around here around the holidays, so beware."

"It does?"

"I mean, not up here obviously, but the park gets a lot of visitors, so Gatlinburg definitely sees a bit of traffic toward the end of the year."

Michonne nodded back, but that seemed so far away at this point, she couldn't really fathom it. "That actually is good to know."

"I hope that doesn't run you off," he said after swallowing down his food. "It's probably nothin' compared to what you've seen."

"Don't worry, I'm here until the semester ends, at the least," she confirmed, chuckling at his worry. "I told myself I was gonna try this for that long and then see what happens afterward."

"So if you like it, you might stay?" The hopefulness in his voice was more apparent than he wanted it to be.

"That's always a possibility," she granted. She could feel the conversation shifting back to subjects she didn't want to discuss, so she went on to ask something that would put the ball back in Rick's court. "So were you serious when you said you make these things for a living," she tapped on the table as a gesture to one of his creations, "or is this a hobby?"

He laughed at the way her speech seemed to hasten the more she drank. "Yeah, I was serious," he confirmed. He wiped his mouth with his napkin before going on. "I have a business of making custom pieces, mostly for rich white folks back in Nashville, but I have some customers in Atlanta," he nodded, explaining how he knew a bit about the city. "Dallas, St. Louis. Even had a lady from California that wanted a credenza and dining table set…" He pointed to his liquor cabinet. "That was supposed to go to one guy who passed away suddenly. Most of the things here are just designs I wanted to try out."

Michonne's eyes widened, impressed. "And it's just you?"

"I have a few guys that help me out when I'm backed up. It's not their day job, but they do good work."

"So you're the boss," she smirked.

"I wouldn't call it that," he shook his head. "If you met Merle Dixon, you'd know he doesn't take orders from anyone."

"Merle Dixon," she repeated loudly, failing to contain her amusement, and therefore, her giggles. "Now that's a country ass name."

He laughed too, mostly because he was certain that the alcohol was making it funnier than it actually was. "That's a pretty normal name in Tennessee," he shrugged. "I once did work for this guy named Reynolds Boderham."

Michonne instantly burst into laughter. Loud, genuine laughter. "Shut up."

"I'm serious," he grinned. "His wife's name was Bonnie."

"You're making this up."

"I swear it," he promised, unable to stop laughing at her mirth. "And they had this little dog named Peaches that she carried everywhere. It was somethin' out of an SNL parody."

"That is hilarious," she continued to titter at the anecdote. "Wow."

"I've definitely met some characters along the way," he agreed, still smiling at the joy she got from this simple thing. "One lady that I worked with for a couple of weeks, she always, without fail, came to answer the door wearing nothin' but a silk robe."

"As in, she was naked?"

"Oh, very much so." He started to blush just thinking about it. "She always claimed she was just getting out of the shower or somethin'. It was so uncomfortable, I had to quit."

"Jesus. Is that what passes for seduction these days?"

"Either that, or she just really liked showers," he chuckled.

Michonne grinned back at him, enjoying the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled. "Something tells me it's the former," she replied, her gaze flitting back to her meal to resume eating.

Rick smirked at what he took as a compliment, observing her slowly cut the rest of her steak into big chunks. "You're a lot nicer when you're drunk," he commented.

She shrugged, devouring a mouthful of food. "Aren't we all?"

"I don't think so..."

"Yeah, you're right," she realized, laughing again. "My best friend is definitely a mean drunk."

"Is she?"

"She likes to fight," she confirmed with a nod, popping a tomato into her mouth. "It's actually pretty annoying now that I'm thinking about it."

"What's her name?"

"Sasha." She sighed, her mind immediately drifting to the conversation she'd had with her a few hours prior. "She's mad at me," she quietly mused. "Everybody's mad at me. Or maybe I'm mad at everybody." She shook her head, running a hand over her exhausted face. "I don't really know anymore."

"Did somethin' happen?" he asked gently. Carefully.

She replied with a rueful smile, shaking her head before settling on words that answered his question without actually telling him anything. "So many things."

He watched her gulp down more of her whiskey and he wanted to ask what she meant by that, feeling like she was perhaps on the verge of actually opening up and telling him something. But his phone began to vibrate loudly in the silence, which he took as a sign not to tug on that thread any more. If and when she wanted to tell him, she would. "Sorry," he said, pulling his LG from his back pocket to see Lori's name scrolling across the front screen. Given the time, he knew it was likely Carl calling to say goodnight. "I gotta take this."

"Of course," she nodded. She watched him slip away from the table, wondering where he planned to disappear to, given the one big room. But it made for a good opportunity to finish her food.

"Hey, bud," Rick was saying in the background, wandering toward his balcony.

Michonne tried not to listen in, but she couldn't help but note the way his voice changed when he spoke to who she could only presume was his son. Not that he seemed particularly hard in the first place, but he certainly softened with his kid. Cute.

"I'm pretty good," he went on, his footsteps louder than his conversation. "How was your day?"

She smiled, briefly at least, as she watched him listen to his son, imagining him telling some animated tale on the other end of the call. She didn't know much about 8-year-olds, but the ones in her old neighborhood tended to be pretty talkative. But her amusement quickly waned when her stupid brain inevitably shifted to Anthony and painful thoughts of how she would never get to have these kinds of conversations with him.

"No, I'm good tonight," Rick continued with Carl. "I actually have a new neighbor up here, and we're in the middle of dinner."

Michonne finished her third glass of alcohol in hopes of drowning out Rick, and for the most part, it worked. She topped it off by stuffing the last of her potatoes in her mouth before going to pour herself another. On the way there, she decided that she really liked his place. It was cozy. She could see his personality in it – he was warm and maybe a little dark, but beautiful.

"I miss you too, Carl. But it won't be much longer now."

With her drink in hand, she drifted across the room, landing in front of his bookshelf – a delightful walnut-colored cabinet, about a foot taller than her, with a glass door that allowed her to see the titles inside. There were some typical titles that she expected to find, especially considering he had a son, like the Harry Potters and Wrinkles in Time. Authors like Jane Austen and George Orwell. But she also found James Baldwin and Octavia Butler. The  _Broken Earth_  series, which was one of her  _favorites_ , and some newer authors like Celeste Ng, Tom Perrotta, Roxane Gay. She looked over to him, surprised to say the least. Of course, maybe they were just sitting in this gorgeous bookcase unread, but their existence was surprising enough on its own. He'd managed to sneak up on her several times, usually in the literal sense, but the evening had allowed her to see him in such different lights. A father, entrepreneur, talented artist, pretty good cook, with excellent taste in books, who apparently used a flip phone in the year 2017. And also, probably not a serial killer. "Hm," she smirked to herself.

"I love you too, bud," Rick declared to his son, obviously getting toward the end of his call. "Sleep tight. Be good tomorrow… All right, goodnight."

Michonne turned back to him when it sounded like he was done, his footsteps moving back toward her. There was that walk that she enjoyed so much...

"Sorry about that," he announced, seeing that she'd gotten bored enough to go exploring. "We talk every night before bed and I was late tonight."

She forced a smile, the screaming in her head not allowing her to engage in a conversation about his kid. "Have you read all these books?" she asked instead.

"Most of 'em," he confirmed, joining her to examine the bookcase. "Admittedly, I haven't finished the Harry Potter series. Carl and I started 'em together, and then he got way ahead of me, so I gave up."

She smiled genuinely this time.

"My brother in law is one of those intellectual types," Rick went on to explain. "He's a writer, went to Princeton Theology Seminary and all that, so he sends me stuff he thinks I should read."

"Mm," she nodded. Staring at the selections once more, she concluded that his brother in law was probably black, and again, had to pretend that she wasn't surprised. At first glance, she wouldn't have been shocked to find a 'Make America Great Again' bumper sticker on the back of his truck. And she still didn't  _know_ anything about his political beliefs or ideologies, but she was now loath to assume. Not that she needed it, but he was proof that books couldn't be judged by their covers. "You're an interesting man, Rick…" She paused when she realized that she was standing in his home and didn't even know his full name. "What's your last name?"

He chuckled at the way her voice went up an octave with her question. "It's Grimes."

"Rick Grimes," she said for herself. "I like it."

"Oh, well thank you. Ms. Godard?" He'd made a mental note of her full name during his brief possession of her bank card, but he questioned whether he was saying it right.

She grinned at the fact that he'd pronounced it correctly, keeping the second 'D' silent. "It's actually Dr. Godard, but it's fine."

He laughed again, enjoying just how beautiful she was when she was happy. Not that she wasn't gorgeous every other way, but her entire face managed to smile with her and it was enchanting.  _She_  was enchanting – when she dropped that guard even a little bit. Like a flower trying to slowly open up. "Oh, excuse me, doctor."

"I'm joking," she shook her head, taking a quick sip of her drink. "Please don't call me that."

"That's not your title?"

"It is, but that's for work, not play."

"Ah," he nodded, appreciating that description of their little rendezvous – especially when she'd been so adamant that it wasn't a date. At least she considered it fun. "Well, Michonne it is then."

Michonne smiled at him, her gaze fixed on him as he moved to open the door of the case. His hands caught her eye – the way he used them, even just to unlatch the opening. His fingers were long, and she imagined they were rough, but he was delicate. Graceful. His hands were beautiful. It was no wonder he used them to make beautiful things.

Rick easily pulled out his favorite book from the bunch, a stack of construction paper bound by string, and presented it to her. "So my son's makin' a comic book," he explained, smiling proudly at the creation. "It's about a rabbit robot that saves the world," he added with a chuckle.

Michonne stared at the cover, a one-eyed bionic bunny sitting beneath the very simple but clever title of  _Robot Rabbit_. She knocked back what was left of her glass and then reluctantly took the book from him to review. She was cautious with it, wiping her fingers of any possible oils on her pants, knowing Rick's son, if he was anything like his father, had probably put a lot of care into it. Of course taking in the childlike handwriting, she had to work hard to keep her emotions in check. She was on this wild seesaw between feeling nothing and everything. "So does any dessert come with this dinner?" she asked, handing over her emptied glass. She needed Rick to be out of her face before he could notice her spiraling.

"I actually do have some ice cream," he suddenly remembered. Clueless of her emotional turmoil, he headed off to the kitchen to retrieve it. "Have you been to that creamery in Pigeon Forge yet? Old Mill?"

She was distracted now, her inebriation not allowing her to focus on two things at once, and she was completely absorbed in Robot Rabbit, genuinely curious as to why he – or she? – was a cyclopic bunny. She even smiled to herself trying to imagine the little person that conceived of it all. She supposed she could've asked for a picture, but knew she was in no shape to handle that.

"Michonne?"

She turned back to Rick, his questioning expression telling her she'd missed something. "Huh?"

He laughed at her obliviousness while holding up a tub of banana pudding ice cream for her to see. "I asked if you'd been to the Old Mill creamery," he repeated. "Then I asked if you wanted banana pudding or whiskey ribbon."

"Oh." She shook her head, unsure how she managed to miss all that. "Does it have real whiskey in it?" Her voice lowered as she asked, as if the question were an inappropriate one.

"Moonshine," he confirmed, matching her tone with an impish smile. He turned back into the kitchen area to retrieve it, directing her to follow. "Come here."

Thankful for the distraction, she left the comic book atop the bookshelf and went to join her host. She found him digging into a gallon-sized plastic container of what looked to be vanilla ice cream with chocolate ripples throughout. Her eyes were more drawn to his arms, however, his forearm muscles flexing as he tussled with the frozen treat. "Is this legal?" she wondered. She was referring to the moonshine, but in all honesty, it shouldn't have been legal to have forearms that nice.

Rick laughed. He loved that she really had no idea about rural living. "Of course it's legal," he assured her. "We're not makin' it, we're eatin' it."

"Oh, well I'm sorry I don't know the alcohol laws."

"Here," he offered her a small scoop of the banana pudding first, figuring she'd like it less than the other.

It should've felt weird to her that a man she barely knew was feeding her ice cream, but it barely registered as anything strange. Especially as the rich, creamy banana and vanilla wafer flavors claimed her tongue. Her mind damn near went blank. "Mm," she instinctively moaned at the taste, taking the spoon from him so that she could lick it clean. "That's good," she remarked, her surprise evident. "That's really good."

"I know." He grabbed a spoon for himself to get a bite before offering her the whiskey ribbon. "They're all good, but these are my favorites." He watched as she tried the second one herself, waiting for her reaction, but instead, his eyes fixated on her lips as she licked remnants of cream from them. She had the most beautiful mouth he'd ever seen. Lips for days, with a cupid's bow that rivaled cupid's actual bow. It was a wonder he hadn't spent the entire evening just staring at her mouth. And now that he had the idea, he couldn't be sure that he wouldn't.

"That one's good too," she decided, loving the mixture of alcohol and chocolate. Without thinking, she slid into the space beside him in order to steal herself another spoonful. "Mmm."

"You're gonna have to stop making that sound if you don't wanna call this a date," Rick quipped.

Michonne giggled loudly in response, her smile lighting up the room as she gazed over at him. "Sorry," she conceded, though quickly distracted by his laugh and those damn glimmering eyes. She was powerless to resist watching him as he ate, taking in his splendid profile. She liked his nose. She liked the way his hair curled around his ears. And his beard, in its fifty shades of gray. It tried to hide his lips, but in a way, it emphasized them, making them look softer and pinker in comparison. She wanted to kiss him. It was the alcohol talking, she knew – she could feel her head practically swimming; and she no longer liked kissing or anything else sexual, so it had to be her drunkenness speaking for her – but she wanted to do it all the same.

He could feel her gaze on him. He liked the idea that she was perhaps as intrigued by him as he was by her, so he didn't shy away from it. He faced her as he devoured another dollop of the dessert, their eyes locking as he slowly pulled the spoon from his mouth. They stared at each other for far too long, and he knew it – he was internally yelling at himself to look away, but he couldn't. Like there was some magnetic pull between them. He nervously licked his lips, his breathing laboring as his mind went haywire, his stare dancing downward. After her lips, her collarbone was the next thing to draw his attention. It was so prominent, her dark skin paired with the most gorgeous bone structure. It looked like dunes in a desert. He could just imagine his tongue running over those crevices. But before he knew it, before his imagination could take him too far, a loud clunk knocked him from his trance, his spoon having fallen out of his hand.

Thankful for the interruption, he picked it up and went to his separate corner. His common sense told him that now wasn't the time. And that was assuming there ever would be one. But it certainly wasn't when she was clearly intoxicated and he was just barely hanging onto his own faculties after ingesting moonshine. No, not now.

Michonne also appreciated the distraction, uncomfortable with the things she'd started to feel. Attraction? In this economy? No, she hadn't signed up for that, and so she was completely unprepared for even the seeds of it. Sparks. Whatever it was, she didn't want it. Not now. She was much more content to bury herself in that ice cream. "I'm gonna eat this whole tub, okay?"

He nodded, grinning, because he believed she really would, too. "You like music?" he asked, taking another helping for himself before sauntering toward his stereo sitting near the door.

"Do I like  _music_?" She laughed at the basic question with her mouth full. "Are there people that don't like music?"

"Of course there are." That didn't stop him from blushing, though, feeling genuinely silly for asking. "I guess I mean to ask what kind of music you like."

She shrugged. "Play me what you like."

Her wish was his command, and within a few seconds, Ella Fitzgerald's silky voice was filling the room and probably even the air outside given the opened windows. And he and Michonne took that as an opportunity to let the music be the conversation, going on to fill their bowls with ice cream before retiring to the couch. Side by side they sat, the click of their silverware on ceramic an accessory to the music.

Michonne liked that she didn't have to talk for a while. She'd pushed herself out of her comfort zone and had even enjoyed Rick's company, but it was exhausting. It was draining to have to be engaging and engaged. To turn off all the emotions that had consumed her for so many months and just be present with this nice, attractive guy. It was hard and it was why she'd numbed herself with alcohol. So she very much preferred getting to sit there, silently, enjoying her delicious ice cream and some Ella and Louis, not to mention Rick's lovely profile when she felt brave enough to sneak a glance. It was the most comfortable she felt all night.

Eventually, the minutes progressed into an hour, then close to two, as they lost track of the time. Ice cream was finished, more drinks consumed, evening turned to night, while the conversation stayed light. They spoke of favorite singers and albums – Rick eventually landing on Prince, while Michonne, after much internal debate, decided on Nina Simone. They shared similar opinions about  _Get Out_ , and debated the correct viewing order of the  _Star Wars_  films. Michonne was disappointed to find out that he didn't watch much TV, but decided nobody's perfect and didn't let that affect her opinion of him. But mainly, the quiet prevailed. Which was why Rick wasn't surprised when he looked over and found his neighbor curled up against the arm of the couch, fast asleep. He even smiled at the sight, glad that she felt relaxed enough – or perhaps just drunk enough – to do so.

He figured it unlikely she'd wake up anytime soon – and even if she did, she wasn't heading home in the pitch blackness, not with the threat of bears. So like any good host, he would make sure she was comfortable there. Gently and deftly, he lifted Michonne from the couch and carried her, like Superman, to his bed. He untied her boots, leaving them neatly beneath the bed's platform, then found the sweater she came in with, covering her with it, ensuring she had all of her things close, in case she did wake in the middle of the night and want to leave. He gazed at her for just a moment, her serene expression giving him hope that she had a good evening; that she'd found some respite from whatever it was that anguished her. And then he turned off the bedside lamp, leaving her to rest.


	5. C U Next Tuesday

_"Negan. Baby, wake up." I grab his shoulder and shake him hard, the panic coursing through my body not allowing me to be gentle. "Wake up."_

_He doesn't budge. Fuck._

_"Wake up," I beg him. But his Ambien-induced slumber won't allow him to hear or feel me, and I want to scream. So I do. "Wake up!"_

_As quickly I can, I carefully slide out of bed, my big, round belly leading the way, and I begin to get dressed. If Negan can't help me, I have no choice but to do it myself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I say out loud. Holding my stomach in hopes of assuaging the sharp, shooting pains, I rush around the room to find underwear, then swap my nightgown for a loose-fitting maxi dress. I call my doctor, who seems muted – which very well could be due to the 1:00 a.m. hour – but I can hear her concern as she affirms my notion to head to the hospital. I do all of this while the contractions seem intent on tearing through me every other minute._

_"Baby, please wake up," I ask, waddling my way to his side of the bed, trying one more time to shake him from his slumber. It takes several precious seconds, but he finally comes to, and is clearly immediately alarmed upon seeing me standing over him, fully dressed._

_"What's wrong?" he asks. "Is it time?" He's scrambling out of bed before I can answer, his frenzy turning to obvious excitement._

_"I think it might be," I admit reluctantly. It's too early, and that worries me, but I was born premature myself, and know that babies can certainly survive at 35 weeks._

_"Okay," he nods. He knows it isn't ideal – I can see it written all over his face – but it's workable. He smiles slowly, and I imagine he's taking in the fact that I'm in labor. Probably. We're having a baby. Our little Anthony Andre is on his way. "Holy shit," he grins._

_I want to return the sentiment, matching that beautiful megawatt smile of his. I do. But whatever's happening inside my body is uncomfortable as fuck, and I need to get to a hospital. "Lovely as this moment is," I say, "...as much as I'd like to live in it with you, I really need you to hurry it up."_

_"Fuck. Right. Okay."_

_And hurry it up, he does. Throwing on a hoodie and jeans, we're scurrying out of the house within maybe three minutes, and we're off to Emory University Hospital by the fourth. I sit there wondering if I should be driving, because maybe the drug hasn't left his system yet. But then another contraction comes, and the thought leaves my mind, replaced by the urge to cry. Negan holds my hand every second of the way, allowing me to squeeze the life from it every time I need to, simply smiling through the pain. All while reminding me of what's on the other end of all this torture._

_"I don't know if contractions are supposed to come this fast," I would comment, not even realizing just how right I am about this. Not yet. They feel like they're back to back to back; and by the time we near the hospital, just a continuous, agonizing ache, compounded by lower back cramps. In the back of my mind, I can only think about how I never want to do this again. I'll regret thinking this soon._

_We reach the hospital in record time, finding the emergency unit to be fairly calm, luckily – though no one expects much of a random Tuesday night in March. Yet somehow, it becomes the night our worlds are turned upside down. Negan helps me out of the car, the two of us trudging as quickly as we can across the parking lot, and I feel some sort of pop with a gush to follow. I think surely my water has broken and I squeeze my fiancé's hand with delight. But that exhilaration quickly turns to horror when we walk through the hospital doors and the fluorescent lighting allows us to see that the lower half of my peach dress is striped in red, and there's a trail of blood following me…_

Michonne's eyes popped open with a sharp inhale, an unfamiliar, sunny room meeting her bleary gaze. Her face sunken into some annoyingly soft, perhaps even foam pillow, she didn't know where she was, but knew she wasn't home. She sat up in the strange bed, her head spinning from the quick movement, and as the room slowly came into focus, she recognized the place where she'd had dinner the night before. Rick's home. And then her head went from spinning to pounding as it all came crashing back to her. She surveyed herself and the rest of the bed, relieved to see that she was still fully clothed and seemed to have slept alone. "Shit," she hissed to herself; scolding herself for drinking so much that she wasn't even sure.

"Good morning," Rick declared brightly, upon seeing his guest had finally stirred.

Her head shot in the direction of his voice, finding him in the kitchen, standing at the stove in particular, wearing only a pair of light blue boxers and a white t-shirt. His wet hair told her he'd probably just taken a shower. Suddenly, she felt like an intruder. "Hey," she sniffled groggily. It took another moment to recognize the smell of bacon and coffee had permeated the house.

"You fell asleep, and it was late and it was dark, so I didn't think I should wake you," he explained, detecting the conflation of worry and confusion on her face.

She nodded, still surveying the room, befuddled. How did dinner turn into her asleep in his bed? And then there was the part where she slept through the night. In silence? Maybe she should've tried drowning her feelings in whiskey a long time ago.

"You should eat somethin'," Rick said, gesturing toward the table. "You're gonna feel like shit today."

"I don't usually drink that much," she said dryly, wincing as the cliched words came out of her mouth.

"You're fine," he assured her. He could tell, even if she wouldn't, that she was drinking for a reason, and it wasn't his place to demand to know why. "You like scrambled eggs?"

"Sure." She untangled herself from his sheets, surprised, for no logical reason, to find her feet bare. "You took off my shoes," she said out loud. Of course he did – why would he let her sleep in his bed with her dirty boots on? But the idea of him undressing her, even in this tiny way, was unsettling.

"You normally sleep with shoes on?" he chuckled.

She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to wake up and stop saying stupid shit. "No," she replied. She found said shoes underneath his fancy bed and reclaimed them before making her way to the table. Unlike the night before, she didn't watch him as he sauntered around the kitchen, preparing her food. She kept her eyes on the table, wishing she'd brought her phone, at least, to occupy her. Before she knew it, a mug of green tea was placed in front of her, followed by a jar of raw honey. She accepted gratefully, and began to prepare her drink to taste. "Thank you," she eventually spoke. Obviously this wasn't his first experience with a hangover.

"You have any plans for the weekend?" Rick asked, primarily in the interest of filling the silence.

She swallowed down a gulp of tea as she tried to think of a polite answer. She had no interest in "hanging out" or wherever his question might be headed. "Work," she said with a small nod. "Preparing for my class."

"When do you start teaching?"

"August."

He nodded back, garnishing her plate with a few banana slices before setting it in front of her, too. "You want jelly or anything for your toast?"

"This is good," she declined, surveying her plate. The eggs were a little drier than she liked – Negan made really creamy, cheese-like eggs that she'd come to love – but she was just thankful to get something on her stomach.

Rick fixed his own plate, sans bananas, and stood at the counter to eat. He could tell that the ease they'd established the night before was all but gone, so he thought it best to give her some space. "So I'm gonna be gone for the next couple of days," he announced. He took a quick sip of his coffee, waiting for her to respond. When she didn't, he added, "I have Carl until Tuesday."

Michonne closed her eyes, hating the reminder that he had a son. But it was a relief to hear that Rick would be gone while he had him; she wouldn't have to worry about being forced to meet him. "So you're going back to Nashville?" she guessed, their conversation slowly coming back to her.

"Yeah. That's where I normally live," he confirmed. "Well, Franklin, technically."

She nodded as if she knew where or what that was, and continued to force down her eggs.  _God, my head_ , was all she could think. Even the crunch of her toast in her mouth was too loud a sound. "Well… have a good weekend."

"You're gonna be okay up here alone?"

"I'll be fine."

He let out an awkward sigh, trying to find a way to ask his next question without ruffling her feathers. "Is it okay if I ask for your number?" he posed gently. "So I can check in on you?"

"No need for all that. I'll be here when you get back," she declined, stuffing banana slices into her mouth to finish her breakfast quickly. She needed to get out of there.

He chuckled sarcastically. "All right…"

"I don't mean to be rude," she submitted, knowing that was exactly how she was coming off. "I just… I didn't mean to make it seem like I was looking for… anything."

"Given what you've said about your relationship, I kinda gathered that."

She immediately began to rub her forehead, worried and wondering what exactly she'd said. "Well. Good then." She stood from her chair, grabbing the last of her toast before bringing her plate to his sink. It was then she noticed the place was spotless from the night before. Pots and pans and ice cream bowls all back in their rightful spots, she supposed.

As Rick finished his own breakfast, he watched her as she stuffed her toast into her mouth and proceeded to wash her plate as if she lived there. She did feel comfortable there, despite all her efforts not to be. "You know," he leaned in to say, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the running water, "just because you aren't looking for somethin' doesn't mean you can't be happy you found it."

She glanced at him, wanting to pretend she didn't know what he was talking about. But he was right – if she happened upon a hundred dollar bill in the street, it'd be a nice surprise. "Okay…"

"I'm not sayin' you found me," he appended. "I'm not necessarily lookin' either. It's just… somethin' to keep in mind." He quickly finished off his eggs and added his plate to the sink, leaving her to wash them – a playful gesture, that he hoped she'd take as such. And then he went to retrieve his jeans. "So I guess I'll see you Tuesday."

"Maybe," she sent back coolly. Almost coldly. "I have a lot of stuff to do," she added in the interest of warming it up.

"All right," he sighed, stepping into his jeans and buttoning them in seemingly one swift motion. "Well I  _hope_  I see you Tuesday. Or sometime next week."

She heard the jingle of his keys and realized he was about to head out at that very moment. "Are you leaving me here in your house? Alone?"

Rick chuckled at how outraged she seemed by the mere thought. "I'm takin' everything interesting with me," he shrugged with a smirk. "Just turn the bottom lock on your way out?"

She was frowning, confused by the tingling in her chest as she let Rick's flirty twang wash over her, and also galled by the fact that he was just… leaving. "Okay…"

"Have a good weekend," he called back on his way out.

With that, he was gone. And she wasn't sure how she felt about it.

* * *

By the time night fell, Michonne was bored out of her mind. She'd been so sure that she wanted her distance from Rick and everyone else, but now that she'd had his company, and genuinely enjoyed it, she was unsure what to do with her aloneness. She tried to read, considered cooking, started to settle in with Hulu, but very quickly found that she was craving human interaction.  _Needed_  it, to keep herself distracted. Without someone to talk to, all she could think about was the life she left behind. Negan. How she left, how she'd yet to speak to him still. This was the longest they'd been apart since… she couldn't even remember. A couple of years, at least.

And she didn't want to spend her night thinking about that, so against her better judgment, she decided to go out. Alone on a Saturday night, dressed in her tightest jeans and an off-the-shoulder ruffled top, she headed into town. She allowed Waze to send her to some bar almost 20 miles away, Glow Sky Lounge. The name was... fitting, as she walked in to see that the stools at the bar were these literal glowing towers of fluorescent oranges and pinks and blues. The rest of the place looked like some tacky cabin — wood everywhere, decorated with random countries' flags and Christmas lights strewn overhead. She felt overdressed with most of the patrons in jean shorts and t-shirts or tanks. But... it was better than being at home with her thoughts, so she stayed. For a while. She'd been there for an hour, in fact, nursing the same drink she'd started with – a far cry from the night before – while warding off the advances of overconfident, mediocre white men that seemed to think they had a chance with her.

"You from Atlanta?" Another one sat down beside her with the same opening question as the previous three.

Michonne had to wonder if she was wearing a sign on her head that demanded that question. Something other than the color of her skin, that is. "No. Are you?" she asked, barely looking at him as she took a sip of her drink.

"I'm from right here in Sevierville," he boasted. "Which is how I know they don't make 'em like you around here."

 _God help me_ , she thought. "I'm from Nashville," she lied, thinking of Rick. "Franklin."

"So what brings you out here?"

She glanced over to the stranger, cuter than the others at least. Tall, slender, a nice-ish haircut. He had a southern accent too, but it lacked any of the melody of Rick's – which was apparently the standard she judged all drawls against now. "I'm on vacation," she eventually answered. "And then I needed a drink."

"Well I'd love to buy you another."

"I think I'm good for now," she held up her glass. "But thanks."

"You don't like white guys?" he guessed.

She rolled her eyes at the random assumption before taking another swig of her Cuba Libre. "Really?"

"Just askin'," he smirked. "You're workin' real hard to seem uninterested."

"Or I'm just uninterested," she shot back.

"What's your name, sweetheart."

Michonne watched as he turned his back to the bar, leaning against it so that they were face to face. Letting out a loud, exasperated sigh, she answered, "Shaquan."

"Philip," he returned, oblivious to her lie. "Good to meet you."

Lacking anything worth replying with, she took yet another gulp.

"You're gonna be out soon," he noted, smiling flirtatiously.

"I have to drive, so it's probably for the best if I don't go overboard." She forced a polite smile while her eyes scanned the room for an exit strategy. She noticed a little stage set up near the back, and she literally cringed at the thought of anyone in this insipid crowd deciding to get up there and perform. In that moment, she really wished she'd given her number to Rick. Or gotten his, at least. If nothing else, she knew she could tolerate his company.

"I can drive you home," Philip offered, his body inching toward her.

Sighing once more, she cut her eyes in his direction. She'd run out of the patience to pretend anymore – not that she was ever doing a great job in the first place. If only there were another black person in sight. Black women were especially good at saving one another in these moments; had a bit of a sixth sense in seeing one of their sisters in need. But it seemed that she was on her own. "Listen, you seem like you could do well in here, so I'm just gonna be honest so you don't waste any more time on me. I have a boyfriend," she decided to lie, since all her other hints didn't seem to be working.

He gave her a disbelieving look. Not because he didn't think she could have one, but what man in their right mind would let her go out alone? "And where could he be that's more important than being with you?"

 _Seriously, god help me_. "He's working. Couldn't make the trip."

"Well that's disappointing."

"To no one more than me," she answered dryly. "But it's probably best if you set your sights on someone else."

"All right," he nodded, smiling at her, "I can take a hint." He moved beside her, placing his left hand on the small of her back while his right hand slid a business card in front of her. "Let me know if you change your mind," he leaned in to whisper.

Michonne practically shuddered at his unwelcome touch. Even if she were interested, human contact was all but foreign to her these days. For the past few months, she'd allowed Negan to kiss her because it felt cruel not to, but she really didn't even like that. So to have this stranger put his hands on her was more than she could take. She instantly stood from her stool, deciding that was her cue to leave. She headed out to her car, the warm breeze calming her just slightly, so she was no longer jittery as she reached her door, but before she could open it, a female voice called out to her.

"Hey!"

Michonne turned to the sound, a middle-aged white woman with a short haircut staring back at her. She looked familiar, but she couldn't place from where. "Yeah?" she asked, baffled.

"Are you okay?" She inched closer, but not close, so as not to scare the woman any more than she worried she already might have been.

"I'm fine," Michonne frowned. "Just calling it a night."

"I saw you talking to that guy. Philip," she said. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," she was quick to reply. "No, I'm fine. I just realized I'm not in the mood to be out."

"Yeah, Philip will have that effect on you," she smirked. "It's nice to see you out, though."

Michonne scowled this time, both irritated and confused now. Who the hell did this lady think she was? "Have we met?"

"Briefly. I work at Food City." She said it as a question, an attempt to jog her memory.

"Oh. Right." The far too talkative cashier. She looked so much different – nice, in fact – outside of her uniform. She even wore a cute little pair of heels.

"I just remember you being new in the area, so I'm glad you decided to come out."

"Oh, well thanks." She smiled politely, knowing this was how people in small towns operated – everyone being involved in everyone else's business – but she surely hadn't missed this part of her upbringing. "But I think I hit my limit."

"I know it's probably not what you're used to, but this place isn't bad once you get to know it. If you're looking to get away from all the noise, here's a good place to do it."

"Seemed pretty noisy in there," Michonne quipped.

The woman smiled, appreciating her sense of humor. "I'm Carol," she revealed, her tone matter-of-fact. "I'm here every Saturday if you're ever looking for someone to hang out with."

"Michonne," she nodded; doubting she would accept her offer, but it was nice to have it. Especially if Rick was gonna run off to see his kid every weekend. It was good to know she had something else to occupy her time if she needed it. She already wasn't looking forward to going back to her cabin and thinking about how she would normally be hanging out with Sasha right now. How Negan would stay upstairs, out of their way, so as to give them their best friend time. She missed that version of Saturday night.

"Where's your friend?" Carol asked.

Diverted from her musings, she frowned at that question, too. "My friend?"

"The beardy guy. You were laughing with him outside the store?"

 _Goddamn, this woman is nosy_. "I, um… he's my neighbor. I think he's out of town this weekend."

Carol nodded, understanding the situation a bit more then. "You're okay to get home?"

"I'm good," she promised, all while dreading the thought of actually doing so. She really did wish she'd gotten Rick's number. "I'll… see you around."

"Have a good night," she called after her.

With that, Michonne hopped in her car and intuitively set her navigation system to head 'home', only to see her old address in Atlanta pop up. "Shit," she mumbled, fumbling for her phone to find the correct address; taking that opportunity to switch out the old for the new. Pangs of guilt striking her like lightning as she did, knowing she was effectively erasing that last part of her old life.

Pulling out of her parking space, she inhaled sharply and without thinking about it too long, decided to make the call she'd been avoiding for so long now. "Call Negan," she directed her car.

She waited with quivering breaths for four rings before accepting that he wasn't going to answer, and then steeled herself for his voicemail. " _Negan Mellone_ ," said the recording, and she felt her stomach drop at the sound of his voice. Waiting for the instructions to finish, she stopped at the edge of the parking lot, recognizing that she shouldn't do this on speakerphone while driving.

"Hey," she spoke into her phone softly. "I, umm… I know this call is long overdue, and I'm sorry it took me so long to get to a place where I could make it. You deserved more than what I gave you, and I know it helps nothing to say that. I guess I just figured, a call wouldn't really do anything to help either. Not when I don't have anything to say." She swallowed hard, perhaps even audibly, as the tears began to surface. "I'm just so empty," she admitted, her voice breaking, "and yet, so full of all this sadness. I just… I don't have anything left for you, or anyone else. And I got so tired of pretending. So tired of trying to be okay. And I hoped… I dunno. I guess I hoped that if I left without any fanfare, if I could slip away, it would be easier for you in some way. You could say, 'Fuck her' and move on with your life. But I see how that was selfish and shortsighted, and I shouldn't have left you with that. I  _regret_  leaving you with that, and being too scared to face it afterward. You were good to me, especially when I didn't know how to be good to myself, so… if you're up to it, I'd like to talk. Whatever you'd like to hash out, whatever closure you need, if that's even possible, I'd like to give it to you." She sighed again, unsure whether she was even making sense. "Hopefully you're out… enjoying your night. Maybe we can talk tomorrow? I'll keep my phone on all day. Take care."

* * *

"Dad!" As Shane's SUV pulled up to Lori's Brentwood home, eight-year-old Carl lit up at the sight of his father's truck at the top of the driveway, waiting for them; excited to see him for the first time all week. Before the car could even come to a full stop, he was trying desperately to open his door, only be thwarted by child-proof locks. "Mom," he whined.

"All right, just calm down," she chuckled. As Rick exited his own car, she could tell just from his body language that he was pissed, and she let out a small sigh. She gave Shane a knowing glance before turning to her son in the backseat. "Baby, can you do me a favor and let me talk to your dad for a second?"

"But I haven't seen him in forever," he exhaled dramatically.

"I know," she said calmly, attempting to placate him. "I just need a  _minute_ , and then off you go."

"You just said it would be a second," he reminded her flatly.

"All right, smartass," she smirked. Shaking her head, she gave her boyfriend a small, reassuring nod. "I'll be right back."

"Do what you gotta do," he encouraged her. "But don't start a fight."

"I'm not gonna start a fight. I'm trying to avoid a fight."

"Yeah, but you know how you are," he smiled back at her, nodding for her to go on and get it over with.

Once the car fully stopped, she hopped out of the car and approached Rick with a hopeful but knowing smile. Knowing she'd fucked up and he had every reason to be mad, but hopeful that he wouldn't ream her for it. "I'm sorry," she declared emphatically. "I know we said 5:00."

"It is fucking 7:30, Lori," he retorted, taking care to keep his voice low so that Carl couldn't hear him. He hoped his sunglasses also hid what was surely his peeved expression, but he wasn't going to hide his anger from her. "You said you were running 'a little late'."

"I know," she nodded. "I know. We just got caught up, and lost track of the time. And then I didn't realize my phone died until we were back in the car…"

"It's always somethin' with you," he shook his head.

"Rick, I'm apologizing here. I'm acknowledging that what I did was shitty, and I'm saying I'm sorry for it."

"Just because you say you're sorry doesn't mean I'm obligated to forgive you," he reminded her, his statement loaded with the weight of their past. "But I'm not trying to make a scene, so we can end this here."

"It's okay if you're mad," she said softly.

"Thank you for your permission." With another exhale, he rolled his eyes and went to retrieve his son, but not before adding one more thing. "I hope you're keepin' in mind that my generosity is the only thing that's allowing you to spend this extra time with Carl. It'd be great if you didn't take it for granted."

"And here I thought you were doing what's best for Carl," she retorted.

"Well god knows he's better off with me," he muttered.

"What was that?" she asked loudly as she followed after him; not taking into account that Carl was merely feet away and likely watching their every move from the car. "Don't mumble it, just say it."

"I'm not about to argue with you in this driveway."

She rolled her eyes at his inexorable self-righteousness. "Oh, well what else is new."

Ignoring her, Rick recomposed himself as he went to open the door of Shane's Expedition, finding genuine joy again once his son came into view. "Hey, bud," he smiled wide, his tone matching his expression. Ever the polite one, he sent a nod up to Shane in the driver's seat, too. "Hey."

"Hey, man," Shane replied.

"Hey, Dad!" Carl waved before excitedly wrapping his arms around Rick's neck for a big hug. As his father laughed in his ear, clearly surprised by the warm greeting, he told him, "It turns out I did miss you."

"Oh, how about that," Rick chuckled, grabbing Carl's bag, taking them both out of the car. "I thought it was just a few days," he teased him.

"It was, but I guess I'm not used to it being so many days," he grinned. Before they could go, he sent a quick wave to his mom's friend. "Bye, Shane!"

"All right, little man. We'll see you Tuesday."

Rick slammed the car door shut and continued back up the driveway, hand in hand with his son. And as they approached where Lori stood, he indignantly and intentionally didn't speak to her, while also being sure that Carl did. "Don't forget to say goodbye to your mother," he reminded him with a soft squeeze.

He could tell that his mother wasn't very happy at the moment, but still, he ran toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist for a hug. "Are you gonna be okay without me?"

She was thankful that Rick continued to his car, allowing her the space to say goodbye. "I'm never okay without you," she smiled, running her fingers through his hair. "But I'll get by."

"Maybe now you and Shane can see that movie you couldn't bring me to," he smiled for her.

"Yep, maybe we'll do that," she agreed, planting a kiss on top of his head. "Be good for your dad, okay?"

"Always am."

"I love you, bug."

"Love you too, Mom." With a final wave, he scurried off to meet his dad on the passenger's side of his Silverado, climbing into the backseat to allow himself to be strapped in. He noticed that his father seemed to be in a quiet mood as they took off, so he thought it best to stay quiet, too. He simply watched the roads as they whizzed by — with the sun just starting to go down, everything was a pretty orange color. His dad had turned on some Johnny Cash, which was so boring it almost lulled him to sleep. But then the drive was fairly short, so they'd made it home before he could doze off.

"Did you eat anything?" Rick suddenly remembered to ask. Carl typically ate dinner at around 6:00, so he hoped so.

"A ham and cheese sandwich on the way home," Carl nodded, his eyes scanning the neighborhood as they parked in front of their building. He was still getting used to the area, so intrigued by how new and cool it all was, especially in comparison to where his mom lived. "If I had said no, would you've taken me to one of the places around here?"

"No," Rick chuckled tiredly – tired from the drive from Gatlinburg, even more tired from his ex. "I can make you somethin' if you're still hungry."

"I'm good," he shook his head. "Just asking."

He smiled at his kid's innate charm. He was so entertaining, often on purpose, which was rare for a child his age. "Come on," he said, pulling his keys from the ignition. "We can go out to breakfast tomorrow."

The two of them piled out of the car and headed for their private elevator entrance, Carl watching his father the entire way. His quietness seemed like something else now that he could see his face. He looked sad. Or angry. Maybe both. Carl knew his parents had argued, even though Shane tried to distract him from it, but he didn't want it to put a damper on their time together. "Are you okay, Dad?" he decided to ask.

"I'm fine," Rick answered quickly, his eyebrows furrowing at the question. "I just don't think you should be out on a Saturday night with grown folks."

"I'm not talking about that," he sighed. "I mean you're mad at mom. Right?"

"I'm not mad." His response, again, was a reflexive one, managing to ignore the fact that Carl was such a perceptive child. It was damn near impossible to lie to him, even if he wanted to lie to himself. "I'm frustrated," he submitted instead. "With the situation. Not just your mother."

"It was my fault we were late," Carl offered as a bit of consolation. "Mom said it was time to go, but I wanted to watch the last two races."

"Carl…" As they rode the elevator up to their home, Rick affectionately brushed back his son's hair, his thumb caressing the top of his head. "I don't want you worrying about this stuff," he sighed quietly. "Nothin' is anyone's  _fault_. It's all just gonna take some time to get used to."

Carl nodded as they landed on their floor, the elevator opening to their big, beautiful, airy loft. He eagerly ran inside, throwing his backpack to the couch as he kicked off his water shoes. It felt good to be home. "Can I play some Yooka-Laylee before I take a bath?"

"You're lucky I'm too tired to run your bath for you," he chuckled, nodding for him to go ahead. "You get thirty minutes." With a heavy exhale, Rick plopped down into one of his lounger chairs, while Carl ran off to undoubtedly grab his favorite bean bag from his room. With a moment of quiet, Rick found his mind wandering to Michonne, wondering how she was spending her evening. He hated to think she was out there alone, although ostensibly, it was what she wanted. But he just imagined this being the evening a bear decided to stray into their neighborhood, and what would she do then? She could be in her home, scared out of her mind, and he'd have no way of knowing.

"Hey, Dad?"

Rick recentered his focus on his son as he traipsed back into the room with his chair and a thoughtful look on his face. "What's up?" he asked, trying and failing not to yawn as the words came out.

"Am I allowed to like Shane?" he asked carefully. His curious blue eyes stayed on his dad for several beats, contemplating whether to finish his thought. "Because I kinda… do."

He chuckled softly in response, mostly to disguise the fact that it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. As much as he wanted to be mature about this whole thing, tried so desperately to be big after Lori made him feel so inadequate and small, he hadn't prepared himself for this. "Of course you are," he said, sitting up to face him. Those four words went against every thought circulating in his brain, but he knew it was the right answer. "Your mom and I won't bring anyone into your life that we don't want you to like." He said it as a diplomatic gesture, but he meant it, too. "And they have to like you too, or no deal."

Carl nodded, relieved to hear it. He was concerned he'd be hurting his father, or even betraying him, by admitting such a thing, but he also didn't want to lie to him. "Have you ever thought about getting a new girlfriend?"

Rick laughed again, the way he said it like it was that simple – just think about it and she'd appear. The only woman he'd met outside of work in recent months was Michonne, and from everything he'd seen, she was even less ready than he was for anything resembling a relationship. "It's not a priority for me right now," he opted to say.

"Priority?"

"It's not a big deal to me," he corrected himself. Carl was so astute, he sometimes forgot he was only eight. "I'm not looking for a girlfriend right now, but if I find one, you'll be the first to know."

Satisfied with that answer, Carl went on to take a seat and play his game, leaving Rick to ponder the question a little longer. Not that he'd been single for very long, but he could admit that he used fatherhood as an excuse to not even think about finding another significant other. Carl was his life, and he'd been okay with that. He even liked it. But now, he had some extra time on his hands, and after ten years with Lori, he was quite clear on what he didn't want — which was half the battle. So now, it was probably a good time to seriously consider what he  _did_  want for his life.

* * *

It was barely 10:00 p.m. by the time Michonne made it back home, trying and failing not to struggle with the idea of being alone. It was so ridiculous that she was so afraid of this concept – the thing she wanted in the first place; her entire reason for abandoning Negan, and now she wanted nothing more than to avoid that very thing. So as the night dragged on, she decided to put on some music – Ella and Louis, as she vaguely recalled hearing and enjoying the night before – and took a bath. A long, relaxing, hot soak.

Thirty minutes later, she stepped out of the tub feeling refreshed and almost looking forward to heading to bed – that was until she caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her naked body staring at her, she couldn't help but stop and look back. Even after all this time, having changed her address and everything else about her life, she couldn't stop remembering what she looked like pregnant. Her giant, beautiful, round belly, stretch marks spanning across it, and the linea nigra down the middle, leading to her protruding navel. Negan always said she had the cutest belly button he'd ever seen, but it was especially so as her belly swelled. As her breasts grew too big to fit in her hands, and her hands grew too big to fit her ring. It had been a huge adjustment. And yet, seeing her body go back to its normal shape and size was the thing she couldn't handle. She felt like a deflated balloon. All the joys and pains of pregnancy with nothing to show for it.

Eventually, Michonne had enough of torturing herself and covered up in her favorite robe. She managed to smile to herself as she put it on, thinking of Rick and the story he told her. God, she wished she'd gotten his number. She wracked her brain trying to remember whether he said when he'd be back. Maybe she could google him? She had his full name and knew he had a business – perhaps she could surprise him with a call; show that she wasn't just some surly, sad woman all the time.

Amused by the thought, she grabbed her phone from the middle of her bed, surprised to find that Negan had called her back while she was taking her bath. A voicemail accompanied the missed call, and her stomach once again dropped at the thought. But she didn't hesitate to turn off the music and swipe to her messages to listen.

" _You have some fuckin' nerve_ ," the message started. It was clear that he was out, someplace noisy, maybe a bar. It was loud, so he was loud. Even louder than the usual brash tone she was used to from him. "Y _ou really have some fuckin' nerve, Michonne. I begged you for days to answer me. And like a fucking idiot, I sat by the phone, thinking you'd give me the respect I deserve, as the man you were about to marry, and give me a damn phone call. That's all I asked for. I wasn't trying to make you come back. I wasn't gonna make you feel like shit for leaving. I just deserved to hear the words from you_ ," he said. " _And_ now _, you call? Did it take you all week to find my phone number? Or did it take you that long to realize you were being a selfish cunt_?" Michonne bristled as she listened, as the harsh word hit her ear and it felt like he'd spit in her face. But she didn't stop the message, even though she should've. Because on some level, she knew she deserved this. " _Well you are absolved of your guilt_ ," he submitted in a voice even louder than the rest of his rant. " _I don't want your fuckin' calls, I don't want your fucking apologies. All I want is to pretend I never fuckin' met you. Give me that, since you obviously couldn't give me anything else_."

She gasped at that final insult, feeling like he'd just punched her in the stomach. To imply that she couldn't give him a baby was the cheapest, lowest shot she could imagine. And maybe he didn't mean it that way, but it was certainly how she took it. Perhaps because it validated all the terrible thoughts she'd had over the course of four months. In the end, she'd failed him. And in a way, it was nice to hear the truth. To know, finally, that that was how he really felt. To hear the honesty in his pain. That all those professions about how he loved her regardless, they were just as empty as she was.

And on the bright side, at least she didn't have to feel guilty anymore.


	6. Let the Flames Begin

It was Tuesday, finally. And despite all of Michonne's efforts to be unaffected by that fact, it was all she could think about – how Rick would, or at least he better, return soon.

Because the days went by so slowly without him, and even more so after her shitty Saturday night. Negan's message hung over her head like an anvil, replacing her compunction with indignation; her hollowness amplified. She felt like a mess, which was such a foreign concept to her. Her life before loss was so ideal. She loved her job, her fiancé, her friends. She kept her home in immaculate order. She was a rockstar at her job and loved that she got to learn and teach every day that she walked in. She was the type to host dinner parties and make people feel special on their birthdays – everyone said she gave the best, most thoughtful gifts. She exercised and ate well and had a healthy sex life, and she made sure Negan did too – hell, she even kept track of all  _his_  doctor's appointments. She was someone who perpetually had her shit together. So to suddenly be someone who didn't, it was hard to come to terms with.

And the only thing that seemed to make her feel a little less messy was Rick. Granted, she'd only known him a few days, but she liked the way she felt around him. Or even when she wasn't around him. Just thinking about him allowed all those heavier things on her mind to just drift away. He made her feel normal. Probably because somewhere in the back of her mind, she figured if he was okay with being around her, maybe she wasn't as fucked up as she thought. So she could admit that she looked forward to his return. She'd missed him.

But the day was dwindling away, Michonne taking to her porch with her favorite book as the sun settled low in the sky. She was genuinely trying to read, but in truth, it was a ruse for herself – an attempt to pretend she wasn't just listening for Rick. As though every rustling leaf, every scurrying squirrel didn't have her looking up hopefully.

Eventually, though, she did hear the sound of Rick's charmingly loud truck, and a wave of calm washed over her. Immediately, she felt safe again. She felt sane again. Because the rest of the world didn't exist when he was near.

She wanted to wait, give him a few minutes to get settled – maybe he would even come over to check on her if she gave him the time. That seemed like something he would do. But her loneliness had taken away her patience, and she was unconcerned with keeping up appearances about how long to wait so as not to seem too eager. She wanted to see him, so she headed on down to his house.

When she arrived, she headed up the steps as usual, expecting that he'd hear her and meet her outside... as usual. But he didn't, leaving her to wonder if they were at the point where she should just walk in? Just a couple of days ago, he did leave her there alone, after all. But this wasn't a TV show, and she wasn't quite that level of comfortable, so she knocked when she approached, gazing out to the water as she waited, and she was reminded that he still owed her a fishing lesson.

Within a matter of seconds, Rick opened his front door to a view of Michonne's back, and the sight almost instantly pulled him out of his funk. Not that he was in a bad mood, per se, but he hadn't had the best weekend, what with his issues with Lori, then Carl repeatedly bringing up Shane in small, but bothersome ways. So  _this_  was a nice welcome back. "Hey," he greeted her, taking in the view of her full frame, while also wondering what was so mesmerizing outside.

"There's a deer," she remarked, answering his unasked question. It seemed to be limping, which troubled her more than it should've, and she couldn't take her eyes off of it. "I think it's injured."

"Ohh, yeah. That's Buckley," he nodded as he stepped onto his porch to join her. When she gave him a strange, obviously perplexed look, he appended, "Carl named him."

"So he comes around often?"

"Yeah, pretty regularly for about a year now," he sighed, leaning against his balcony's railing to watch the deer, too. "He's kinda skittish, so we don't get close. But he seems to think he's safe around here."

"Or maybe he knows you've got his mom in your freezer," she commented wryly, sending another glance his way.

"Wow," Rick chuckled, shocked by the comeback, while appreciating her wit. He stole a glimpse of her as she continued to study the deer, and he noted that she seemed to be in a good mood. Light. Certainly different from the woman who awoke dazed and confused on Saturday morning. "So did you need somethin', or did you just come over to judge me?" he asked jokingly, turning to head back inside.

She followed behind, happy to escape the cool breeze, finding that his home felt unexpectedly familiar to her as she stepped inside; she even took a seat on the edge of his bed without thinking much about it. "Well it turns out it's pretty lonely around here without you, so I thought I'd come say hello."

Rick turned back to her from his kitchen, pleasantly surprised by her forthcomingness. She must've  _really_  missed him if she was willing to admit it. "So not a great weekend, huh?"

Michonne shrugged, accepting a bottle of water from him as he returned to his living space. "It was enlightening," she answered brusquely.

He frowned in response, unsure how he was supposed to take that, but he didn't want to pry, so he left it there. "Well... I'll be here the rest of the week, if that helps."

"Good," she nodded. "Because I owe you dinner, so... maybe you can come over on Thursday, maybe Friday?"

Rick's eyebrows raised in bit of amazement – clearly she was full of surprises this afternoon. Maybe he needed to leave her more often if this was going to be what he came back to. "That sounds great, yeah," he happily accepted. "Thursday?"

"Okay," she shyly grinned, relieved that he'd accepted. Not that she thought he wouldn't, but it meant something to get an enthusiastic yes. Not like when she'd reluctantly agreed to his dinner invite. "I also wanted to give you this," she submitted, pulling a small scrap of paper from her back pocket. She walked it over to him at his dining table, hoping he'd take it as a peace offering after how curt she'd been the day he left. "Just don't expect me to pick up," she warned. "I don't even keep up with my phone anymore."

He smirked as he gazed at her phone number written neatly on a piece of notepaper. She had handwriting like an elementary school teacher. "Yeah, I've noticed that," he nodded. "Most people are glued to their phones, but you never even have one close."

"I'm not exactly good at communicating," she granted with a weak smile. "And the idea of constantly being available to everyone is... a lot. It's too much, really."

"Tell me about it." He sighed heavily, avoiding her gaze as his mind explored that concept. He had to admit, if he didn't have Carl, it would've been pretty nice to go off the grid like she had; just disappear...

"You okay?" Michonne wondered as she observed his glum expression. She imagined this was how she usually looked, which meant the answer was probably no.

He immediately shook the useless thoughts away. "I'm good."

"How was your weekend?" She asked against her better judgment, knowing he was likely to start talking about his kid at length. But in the interest of not pushing him away like she had everyone else, it was probably best to at least try to be interested in his life.

"It was fine," he returned with another small exhale. "Do yourself a favor, though – choose wisely if you ever decide to have a kid with someone."

She frowned at the sage advice, certainly able to relate, while also inwardly questioning what the hell that ex-girlfriend of his had done now. "Sounds like we had similar weekends," she commiserated.

"Well," he held up his bottle of water as if to make a toast, not even registering what that might've meant for her, "here's to a better week for us then."

* * *

"I'm not exaggerating when I say this might be the best meal I've ever had, Michonne." Rick sat back in his chair with a contented sigh, regretful that all of his food was gone, though he probably couldn't eat another bite. "Jesus."

Michonne smiled in response, remembering how he'd told her that he wouldn't have said something if he didn't mean it. She believed him. And that felt good, because she'd spent literally all day in the kitchen. Beef braciole, or better known in Italy as involtini – which roughly translated 'little bundles' of stuffed meat – was no light work. Starting with chopping up a ridiculous amount of garlic, which was one of her least favorite things to do. She also included prosciutto, parsley, three different cheeses, pine nuts, and homemade bread crumbs as her filling. She also had to drive out to the Walmart an hour away to find a meat mallet for her sirloin. There was butcher's twine involved, for securing the meat into rolls, and then after the insane amount of prep, she had to stand over the stove while it cooked for two hours in a red wine tomato sauce. It was a lot. But according to everyone she knew, it was her best dish, so she wanted to make it for him. And it seemed that it was worth it. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she nodded, taking a sip from what was left of her wine.

"Braciole," he pronounced the foreign term with a bit of awe in his tone. "Did you go to cooking school while you were gettin' all your other degrees?" he grinned.

She laughed this time – if only he knew this was the one great thing she really knew how to make. "No," she shook her head emphatically. She wanted to tell him the truth, but she still wasn't ready to open up the can of worms that came with it. "It's a recipe from a coworker," she shrugged.

He nodded as he scraped up the last bits of tomatoes and parsley. "I think I'd pay you to make this for us every week."

"Well I don't come cheap, so I hope you're prepared if I decide to take you up on that," she quipped. She didn't miss his use of 'us,' and something within her liked that he was including her in his plans. Something else within her was scared of it.

"I'm prepared," he promised with a smirk, grabbing his wine glass. He finished what was left of that too before shifting the conversation. "So you've been here for over a week now. How are you liking it? …or not liking it?"

"I actually… I'm getting used to it," she nodded, looking around her home. While he was gone, it was all she had, and she really did like the place. "I've redecorated a bit, so it feels more like me. I'm getting to know the town, so it doesn't feel quite as scary when I step outside."

"So you've been to places other than the grocery stores?" he wondered, hoping she had.

"Unfortunately," she confessed, her tone turning dry as she recalled her Saturday night. "I went to a bar over the weekend."

Rick was once again surprised, and he wasn't sure why – it wasn't like he knew this woman well enough to be shocked by anything she did. "Didn't go well?"

"I don't know what I was expecting from the clientele, but… let's just say it wasn't my scene."

"What bar was it?"

"Glow… Sky… something. It was so tacky and weird," she shook her head, rubbing her face, as just the thought of that place exhausted her. "But apparently, it's  _the_  spot in town, so it looks like I'll be staying in on Saturday nights."

He laughed at her anguish over the situation. He'd yet to really venture out to see what local nightlife was like, so he only had her information to go by. But it sounded like he never needed to. "No one caught your eye, huh?"

She nearly rolled them out of her head when she thought about Philip and Toby or Tobin, and whatever other vapid white men tried to talk to her that night. "It's safe to say you're the only guy I'll be having dinner with anytime soon."

"I'm not gonna complain about that," he smirked. He watched her rise from her seat, taking both of their plates with her as she sauntered into her kitchen. He liked that she seemed a bit more at ease, and without the aid of four glasses of whiskey tonight. She was getting used to him, he hoped. Though he still felt like he was putting together a puzzle when it came to her, and he'd figured out what he could, but was still missing a bunch of pieces.

"You want some more wine?" she called to him.

"Sure." He immediately hopped up from his seat to bring her his glass so that she wouldn't have to come to him, surveying her kitchen as he did. Her home was so big – especially in comparison to his. "I feel like I should ask you to give me a tour of this place," he joked.

Michonne chuckled knowingly as she poured him and herself more Malbec. "I didn't realize it was this big when I looked at it online. I wanted something cozier, really. But I like it now."

"See, I told you you don't have to be looking for something to enjoy it."

"All right," she rolled her eyes, playfully this time. "Come."

He did as told, following behind her as she led him to the steps of her home, up a long, narrow staircase that took them to an open room, presumably her bedroom. A big, comfortable-looking bed with a pretty duvet sat in the middle of it. He wasn't sure what was happening, but his footsteps got more tentative as they moved farther into the room. "May I ask what we're we doin'?"

_I had a thought dear, however scary_  
_About that night, the bugs and the dirt_  
_Why were you digging, what did you bury  
_ _Before those hands pulled me from the earth?_

She chuckled at the unease in his question. For the first time in their short history, she felt like she was the steady one between them. "Are you nervous?"

"More like curious," he submitted, continuing behind her. He quickly realized she was leading him to a balcony, and he felt silly for letting his mind stray.

"I just thought we could hang out out here," she said, showing off her view. Even in the darkness of dusk, those Great Smoky Mountains were gorgeous. "Sorry I don't have chairs…"

"No, it's fine," he nodded, leaning over the balcony railing with his glass. "This is nice."

She smiled at the side of his face, pleased that he agreed. She was having a bit of deja vu as she gazed at his lovely profile, but this time, she forced herself not to stare. "So… you mentioned earlier that you're having a rough time with your ex," she recounted from their dinner conversation.

"Yeah…" He took a sip from his glass as he waited for her to go on.

"Well it seemed like you were gonna say something else, but I cut you off."

"Oh, no. I just… I was saying that's why I got back so late the other day."

Michonne nodded. She was hoping he'd say more so she'd have a reason to say more. It was a rare talent to be able to hold full conversations without revealing anything about yourself – one she wished she had, especially now. "Even when you got back the other day, you seemed… bothered," she recalled. "Did something happen?"

He looked over to her, those gorgeous eyes wide with curiosity, and he wondered why she suddenly seemed so interested in his life. A few nights ago, she had to drown herself in liquor just to be somewhat present with him. Did absence make the heart grow fonder? "Are you all right?" he laughed lightly.

"Yeah?" she frowned. "I guess I just wanted to chat since I've been so quiet lately. Since Sunday, I've only talked to you and my parents."

"I take it your best friend's still mad at you?" he guessed. "Or was it you that was mad at her?"

She shook her head at the fact that she told him that. "I think it's the former," she admitted. "I called her a few days ago, but I haven't heard back from her."

"Maybe she's busy?"

"Or maybe I've successfully pushed her away too," she shrugged, smiling sadly. She swirled the contents of her glass, hesitant to take another drink now. She wanted to be fully aware of what she said to him – and what he said to her, for that matter. "I don't wanna do that with you, too, so… please talk to me."

_I will not ask you where you came from  
_ _I will not ask and neither should you_

He smiled, appreciating her openness, knowing how hard it likely was, given just how closed off she'd been. "Well nothin' particularly bad happened," he sighed, deciding to tell his story. "I think I'm just runnin' out of patience with her."

"Well. She cheated on you, so it's commendable that you had any to begin with."

"And that's the thing. I've been trying so hard to just… keep things on an even keel. Be amenable, for Carl, even though it hurts like hell every time I look at her. Every time I have to see her with that guy," he rolled his eyes. "And then she goes and does things like shows up two hours late when I'm waiting to pick up my son. And this is after she asked to keep him for an extra day." He paused as he thought about it all – hearing it out loud seemed to underline just how disrespectful it was. "Then I go to drop him off on Tuesday, and again, she's not home. Which would've been fine… I'm not gonna complain about getting extra time with Carl, but of course she didn't mention it. So we head inside, figuring she'll be back soon enough. She's living in the house I still own, by the way. And this other guy's stuff is all over the place…" Rick sighed again, feeling like he was reliving his personal nightmare. "It's been a lot with her, and I feel like all I do is give, and all she does it take."

Michonne could feel herself scowling at his story. She hated the thought of someone being so unkind to Rick, especially when he seemed like someone who was nothing but kind and patient. But she could also recognize this woman's inconsiderateness in herself and how she treated Negan, which only brought back remnants of that guilt she'd managed to push down. "Was she always like this?" she wondered. "Or did it only surface once you broke up?"

"She certainly wasn't always like this," he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes as he thought back to the beginning of their relationship. "But I think the longer we were together, the more comfortable we became, I didn't let myself see what was happening. She got bored with me, I think," he nodded. "Then she started becoming more and more selfish. Leaving me to take care of Carl more often than not. She said she needed breaks, and you know, she was a working mother, and I thought I owed that to her. Fathers rarely get the brunt of the responsibilities, so I wanted to make sure I did  _more_  than half. So she could have fun sometimes, hang out with her friends, whatever. I certainly didn't mind. And so I couldn't see what was so clearly in front of me." He bit at his bottom lip contemplatively; he had to force himself not to think about the morning he found out what she was really doing. "And now we have to share this kid who deserves the world, and both his parents, and it's been so hard tryin' to navigate that."

"Have you talked to her about any of this?" she asked carefully. "Do you even feel like you can?"

"I haven't," he conceded. "I vacillate between being too mad and not mad enough. And when I do get mad, she always tries to placate me with some trite apology, so then I feel like an asshole for bringin' it up."

"Sounds manipulative…"

He scoffed in reply, agreeing with that more than he could put into words. "It is. But… she's the mother of my son, so I tend to put up with things I normally wouldn't."

"God knows I'm probably the last person in the world that should be telling someone how to handle something," Michonne started, her voice unusually soft and comforting, "but this is someone you're gonna have to deal with for the rest of your life. This issue isn't gonna magically go away. So I don't know what the best way to do it is, but you probably need to say something to her. It's not fair that you have to keep all your feelings bottled up while she gets to do whatever she wants."

_Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips  
_ _We should just kiss like real people do_

He hung his head at the thought. She was probably right, but he really did hate talking to Lori. For several reasons. "Can't I just talk to you?" He asked as a joke, but he also would've much preferred it that way.

"You're welcome to," she smiled warmly at him; genuinely. "But I'm not gonna solve your problem."  _I'm just another problem_ , she thought.

"I know," he sighed. "It sounds so simple. Just talk to her. But allowing yourself to be vulnerable with someone... especially after they already broke your heart? That shit is hard."

"Mm." She hated how much she was forced to think about her own ex in that moment – she wanted to just despise him for lashing out at her the way he did. But with Rick framing it this way, she could at least begin to understand Negan's response. For all intents and purposes, she was the villain in his story, same as Lori was in Rick's. And certainly, she had her own side that undoubtedly recontextualized all of this, but it didn't change the way she'd made Rick feel. It didn't change the way  _she'd_  made Negan feel. So she knocked back the majority of her wine as all these thoughts swirled around in her head.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down," Rick chuckled, figuring he'd hit a little too close to home there.

"No, I'm the one that asked," she shook her head. "It's just... it's sad how everyone has something, I guess. How heartbreak is just this unavoidable part of life."

He nodded, though his gaze was distractedly focused on the dark abyss in front of them. He quietly hoped that she would share her something with him one day, but he knew better than to ask.

_I knew that look dear, eyes always seeking_  
_Was there in someone that dug long ago_  
_So I will not ask you why you were creeping  
_ _In some sad way I already know_

"We can move on to easier subjects," he suggested, offering an awkward smile in hopes of lightening the mood. "I um... I noticed you had  _Americanah_  on your coffee table. Is that what you're reading right now?"

She looked over to him, mildly surprised that he'd noticed. "Yeah, I love that book," she continued to speak softly, her mind drifting. "Have you read it?"

"I haven't," he revealed regretfully. "All my recent reads have been nonfiction," he went on to explain, "which includes  _We Should All Be Feminists,_ so I do wanna read more of her work at some point."

"You should," Michonne encouraged with a small nod. She liked his taste. She liked him. "Take it when you leave."

"What?" he chuckled.

" _Americanah_. Take it with you."

"Oh, no I don't wanna-"

"Please," she insisted. "Then we'll have something to talk about other than our sad lives."

Rick chuckled through his nose; he enjoyed her rather bleak sense of humor. "Well thank you. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"I've read it like ten times," she shook her head, dismissing the gesture as a small one. "I look forward to hearing your thoughts."

"Well if you feel like reading about the rise of Islamic State, that's what I just finished."

She laughed at first, but her face quickly contorted into a concerned frown when she realized he was serious.

"I just try to know about the world," he smiled again, feeling her confused gaze. "I didn't go to college, which I tend to feel insecure about sometimes. Especially raising a kid who comes home with math problems that look like some kind of timeline. So I just try to learn what I can."

_So I will not ask you where you came from  
_ _I would not ask and neither would you_

Michonne wasn't sure what was happening – maybe the mention of his son, or his sheer earnestness, maybe a combination of both – but her heart began to beat faster. She'd known this man for all of a week, but she felt an undeniable connection to him. She trusted him. Which was such a peculiar and unwelcome feeling, but she didn't know how to fight it. And maybe she shouldn't. "You remember that boyfriend I told you about?" she asked, though she was certain he did.

He glanced over to her inquisitively, his blue gaze questioning where this was headed. "Yeah…"

"He was my fiancé," she intimated. She looked at him with big, innocent eyes, waiting for him to react, but he didn't. So she went on. "His mother is who taught me to make that braciole." She paused as she recalled the many Sundays they'd spent in the kitchen, Lucille helping her perfect the dish. "She loved me," she submitted with another glum smile. " _He_  loved me. But I couldn't handle that love, so I left. I fucked it up so that I couldn't run back to him in the event that I got scared... And I came here."

Rick wasn't sure what to say, so he only stared. This beautiful, sad woman. He could see everything she'd just said in her eyes. She looked scared and hopeful and angry and curious and determined and relieved all at once. "It feels like this is the first time you've been honest with me," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, feeling like he was seeing right through her, and she loved it and hated it. She wanted so badly not to feel things, and she thought he was going to be the distraction she needed. But instead, he just made her feel different things. The way he spoke made her feel warm inside. The way he licked his lips gave her butterflies. And the way he opened her up without even trying was terrifying. "Rick," she whispered back, her voice breaking as a tear slipped down her cheek.

He moved to wipe the tear from her face, and the two of them were suddenly standing so close, he could feel her light, warm breath on his neck. "I'm glad you came here," he said. Without thinking, he allowed his thumb to slip down to her bottom lip, caressing her soft wet flesh as their eyes locked, and time seemed to stop.

_Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips_

Michonne's mind was screaming for her to do it, just kiss him, as her body so clearly wanted to do. Despite the cool air, she felt hot, the warmth from his chest filling the short distance between them. She was thankful when he made the first move, lifting her chin with his index finger. "Fuck," she mumbled to herself – an expression of excitement and uncertainty – just before he leaned in with the kiss. His lips were so gloriously soft, and she liked the tickle of his beard against her face. His kiss was gentle. As she slipped her tongue into his mouth, he moved his hand to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him, and in that moment, she felt more alive than she had in months. Maybe years.

Rick felt like he was floating as they inhaled one another. Sooner than later, he had her pinned against the balcony, letting out a series of involuntary moans as he sucked on her perfect lips, his hands roaming her soft face and tangling in her thick locs. Her kisses were hungry, like she was looking for something, and he hopelessly wanted to be the thing that she found.

_We should just kiss like real people do_

As the two of them pulled apart for air, the unexpected moment leaving them both a bit dizzy, Michonne was already kicking herself for the words that were about to come out of her mouth next. "You wanna have sex?" she asked plainly. It was devoid of any romance or even emotion – which, to be fair, she wasn't looking for. In fact, quite the opposite. But it had been a long time, and after months of thinking she didn't want anything in the realm of physical intimacy, as they stood there chest to chest, her lips tingling from his kiss, she became very aware that she wanted  _him_.

Rick forced his gaze from her mouth, still in a bit of a haze from their liplock, and looked her in the eye, his eyebrow quirked with intrigue. He hadn't had sex in nearly a year – had barely even thought about it outside of a few lonely nights here and there – but suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more. He could only hope she wasn't joking. "Is... that what you want?"

She nodded eagerly before pulling him in for another kiss. Her fingers enmeshed in his beard, obsessed with the fuzzy feeling against her fingertips, his hot tongue lashing against hers. She led him back inside with her lips, the two of them stumbling blindly through the unfamiliar terrain as they attempted to undress one another. As Michonne's shirt went over her head, the back of her legs hit the bed, sending her falling into the mattress with a tiny, surprised gasp. But that gasp quickly turned into a shy smile when Rick joined her, smirking mischievously as he straddled her.

He threw her Henley shirt to the floor and began to fervently kiss her neck, giving her velvety skin these long, slow licks that made her shiver. Which made him smile. His tongue explored the curves of her collarbone, as he'd been yearning to do, and worked his way down, past her bra to her perfect torso, where he would lick through the ripples of her taut stomach as he unbuttoned her jeans.

"Kiss me again," she requested, feeling a bit anxious at the thought of him removing her pants. She needed a few more minutes to adjust to the idea of being naked. Plus, she liked the way he kissed. He was tender, but knew exactly how and when to use his tongue. It danced with hers instead of the typical wrestle. She ran her fingers through his curls, so soft they felt like feathers in her hand. She liked kissing him.

As he indulged her request, his lips inhaling hers, Michonne slowly became comfortable enough to start undressing him. She untucked his shirt from his jeans and began to work on the buttons. She got butterflies when her fingers grazed his skin, the hardness of his stomach surprising her. Although, given his arms, it probably shouldn't have. She let out a quiet, uncontrollable whimper at the sensation; the combination of his body and his lips already getting her wet. Maybe she'd missed sex more than she thought.

She moaned again when he broke their kiss and pulled back to take off his shirt. She licked her lips as his tanned skin and broad, muscled shoulders came into view. She watched him like a movie as he pulled his arms from the sleeves, the veins of his forearms leaving her squirming. She wanted to lick every inch of him. She imagined him tasting like that banana pudding ice cream she'd become such a fan of.

"You okay?" he grinned, noticing her daze.

Michonne nodded. She wiggled her feet nervously, still clad in her boots. "Take off my shoes?"

Rick did so with a smile, hopping off of the bed to kick off his own boots as he untied hers. All of it felt a bit surreal and strange. He didn't know this woman, not really, but it felt as though he did. Or maybe he just wanted to. "I should probably mention that I haven't done this in a while," he confessed, just as her boots made two big thuds as they hit the wood floor.

She wanted to say that she hadn't either, but decided against it. She was about to share more than enough with him for one night. She couldn't help but notice the way he stared at her body; she wondered if he saw the stretch marks, the scars that she was unable to stop imagining. Evidence of her past. She wasn't even naked yet, but he made her feel like she was. Constantly. "Take off your pants," she instructed him.

He chuckled. He liked that she liked to be in charge, so he would go with it... for now. He unfastened his jeans and allowed them to fall, all while she crawled to the edge of the bed to meet him. "I think it's your turn," he smirked as she kneeled in front of him, putting them face to face. His finger traced the underside of her bra, waiting for permission to remove it; licking his lips as he did.

She playfully rolled her eyes before obliging, unhooking the brassiere for herself, letting her full breasts spill from the cups before throwing it to their pile of clothes that had collected on the floor. She was pregnant the last time she was this naked with another man. A sigh fell from her lips as that fact washed over her. "Kiss me again?" she asked in a whisper.

Rick nodded before going in for another, appreciating that she liked to kiss. Which was unexpected for someone as closed off as she'd been. But then, so was all of this. He inhaled sharply as her soft chest pressed against him as his lips pressed against hers. His hands spanned her deliciously toned back, relishing in her hot skin before roaming south. He slipped his fingers into her opened jeans, and then inside her panties, palming her backside excitedly. Squeezing it. Pulling her closer to him and his quickly growing erection.

Michonne could feel herself pulsating as Rick's bulge pushed against her.  _Fuck_. She wanted him. Badly. She deepened their kiss, her fingers gripping at his hair, she lured him back onto the bed with her. On top of her. He was so tender with her, yet somehow, still very passionate. He consumed her. He made her feel like he'd known her forever and wanted her even longer.

He moved his kisses back down her body, his dick only getting harder as he landed on her tits. He loved the way they fit in his hands so perfectly. He licked and lapped at her stiffened nipples, smiling when she moaned in response. His tongue circled her navel as he skillfully lowered her jeans, his lips never breaking contact with her skin, anticipating getting to her sweet spot. He loved her body and getting to explore it. All these gorgeous muscles covered by the smoothest, brownest skin he'd ever seen. He wanted to drink wine from the curve of her back and then eat her pussy for dessert. He wanted to devour every inch of her.

But it seemed that wasn't what she wanted. "Stop," she suddenly whimpered, pulling gently at his curls.

Rick wasn't sure whether this was a ' _Stop, this feels so good, I can't take it'_  kind of situation, or if she truly wanted him to stop, so he erred on the side of caution and immediately halted. "You're not ready for this," he guessed, hoping he hadn't somehow traumatized her by moving too fast.

"It's not that," she was quick to deny. She smiled at his concern and almost reached out to him to reassure him of as much. She didn't, though; more absorbed with how to say what she wanted without sounding like an asshole. But his trajectory seemed to be headed toward giving her oral, and she wasn't quite ready for  _that_ level of intimacy. "I don't need the foreplay," she decided to simply tell him. "I just… I'd rather just the sex."

"Oh."

"If that's okay with you…" she clumsily added.

"I'm fine with whatever you want..."

He was so kind. Maybe even too kind. But it was very much the reason that she liked him as much as she did. "Okay," she nodded, a timid smile telling him to go on. She lifted her hips from the bed to help him with removing her pants. Suddenly, she was aware of how quiet the room was. Just the rustling sound of clothing being removed. It was all so awkward, even innocent. The way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing on earth. Meanwhile, she was self-conscious because she hadn't shaved in far too long, not even her legs, and she was allowing him to see her stark naked. She wriggled nervously on the bed as she waited for him to remove his boxers. She swallowed hard when she got a glimpse of his pinkish length; her nipples tightened into knots again, conveying her arousal. Her stomach was doing backflips as it contracted, unsure whether she was as ready for this as she thought.

Rick gave his dick a few strokes before returning his attention to Michonne. His head was swirling a bit, as he tried to figure out just how they'd ended up here. Not that he was complaining, but this was just about the last thing he imagined when he walked into her house that evening. Now she was laid in front of him, all these gorgeous dark brown curves waiting to be explored, her legs literally open to him, he still wondered if she truly wanted this. As much as she claimed she did, as much as he did too, his stiff cock practically begging for it, it just seemed so unreal. "You're sure you're good?" he asked, rubbing her left thigh as he positioned himself between them.

"If you ask me that again, I'm gonna go find someone else," she smirked, knowing that was a lie. Even if there was another man in a ten-mile radius, none of them were Rick.

"Good luck with that," he retorted coolly, leaning back into her for another kiss. He fingered her briefly as their lips locked, familiarizing himself with her pussy - the coarse hair that covered her, the shape of her clit and her wet folds. She felt so good, he almost came instantly at just the touch. "Fuck," he whispered into her mouth, causing both of them to giggle. But the levity quickly dissipated as he resumed their kiss and the head of his dick flirted with her opening. They both moaned quietly at the taste of what was to come, as her clit tickled his tip and vice versa. Their liplock became sloppy as he tried to find his way in, their groans growing louder at the sensation of him against her.

"Right there," Michonne whispered as he pushed into her with a soft grunt. Filling her up, pressed against her walls. Fuck. He felt good. It felt even better when he began to thrust. Slow, sensual rolls of his hips that managed to hit several spots at once. While his kisses moved along her throat and his hands fondled her nipples, stimulating every part of her. She felt like she was on a ride, and she wasn't sure whether she should want to get off. Wasn't sure she deserved this. She ran away from her life, devastating everyone she left behind, only to come here and find a man that would fuck her like a god? Even the way he sucked her tits was magical. The way he moved... She was about to mess around and get pregnant again.  _Fuck_. "Wait, wait, wait," she breathed, squeezing his bare shoulder – the firmness of it almost telling her to ignore her instinct and keep going. But alas. "Do you have a condom?"

Rick immediately stopped thrusting and kissing long enough to realize their mistake. "Shit," he hissed. He hadn't used condoms in nearly a decade, so the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "I don't even have any at home," he shook his head. He couldn't decipher her expression, but he hoped it was meant to say she was as disappointed as he was. "I mean… I can pull out," he suggested.

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind – there was no way she was taking that risk – but she also understood why he was eager to continue. He was still inside her as they spoke, and she felt like she was going to explode herself. "Just let me do you," she suggested, nodding for him to switch places with her.

"What?"

"I can finish you off…" She licked her lips as her eyes averted his, hoping he would get the picture without her having to ask to suck his dick.

"O-okay," Rick granted. He pulled out of her carefully, both of them wet with their bodily fluids, and he positioned onto his back while she sat up. He was confused, which probably wasn't the best way to begin a sexual relationship, but he was also horny as hell at this point, so he wasn't about to turn down a blow job either. They could sort out their feelings, or lack thereof, in the morning.

"You good?" she asked as she mounted his legs. Her eyes were drawn to his cock, all hard and slick, pointing to her like it knew what she was about to do. Though in truth, she was out of practice and questioning whether  _she_  was good at this point.

"Oh, so you can ask me that, but I can't ask you?"

"You asked me like twelve times," she rolled her eyes.

"Excuse me for making sure you were comfortable," he teased her.

"And now I'm doing the same."

"I'm good," he assured her with a smirk, his eyes dancing down her body. God, she was perfect.

She let out a light exhale as she ran her fingers along his thighs and traced them up his stomach, trying to work up the gumption to begin. This was a lot easier when he was doing all the work.

"What's wrong?" Rick asked quietly, all the teasing gone from his tone.

"I dunno," she shook her head. "I think you made it weird by talking so much."

He smiled. "I assure you it was weird anyway."

Michonne wanted to argue with that, but quickly recognized she had no leg to stand on. Of course sex was inherently awkward – certainly with a new partner – but this was really taking the cake. Due in large part to the fact that she had no idea what she wanted. She wanted everything and nothing. She wanted to feel  _something_  without being forced to think about all the things she'd tried so hard to push down. And she wasn't sure how she was supposed to do that; be this walking dichotomy. "Yeah, I guess it was…"

"Did you know this was what you wanted when you invited me over?"

She cocked her head to the side, wondering if he was serious. "Does it seem like I had a plan in place here?"

"No, you're right," he granted with a quiet laugh. Unless her plan was to show a totally different side of herself by being a little more open, but also awkward and shy, thereby endearing her to him even more. He liked cool, detached Michonne – it was challenging to open her up, and that kept things interesting. But this version of her, the one that probably made her push everyone away because she wanted so desperately to keep this part of her hidden, that was the Michonne he wanted to get to know. "We can just lay here if you want," he suggested softly. "I'm not in any rush here."

_I could not ask you where you came from  
_ _I could not ask and neither could you_

She smiled at his thoughtfulness. He really didn't do anything to make this easier on her. She could try forever to be uninvolved and seem unaffected, but everything he did, damn near every word he said, just chipped away at that. "I dunno, it seems like you could use some help right about now," she joked, referring to his erection.

He shrugged. "I'll live." Of course he wasn't sure how long he'd live with her naked on top of him like this.

She nodded, but she didn't want to leave him like this. Just because she was still figuring out what the hell she wanted didn't mean he needed to go to sleep horny and frustrated. "So you're saying you  _don't_  want me to suck your dick?"

"I mean…" He caught her impish smile and matched it with his own as he shook his head. "If you want to, I'm certainly not gonna say no."

She nodded as her gaze slipped down his frame again, landing back on his hardened length. She was already wetting her lips in preparation. "Are you gonna say yes?"

Amused, Rick sat up to meet her with another kiss, knowing now just how much she enjoyed them. He cupped her face, his lips and tongue locking with hers, briefly but sweetly before answering her question. "Yes," he whispered.

He knew he still didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle, but he was definitely starting to see a clearer picture.

_Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips  
_ _We could just kiss like real people do_

* * *

Lyrics: "Like Real People Do" - Hozier (Hozier)


	7. Something He Can Feel

"Mich…" With Michonne's tongue rendering Rick speechless, his unfinished thought hung in the air in much the same way as his mouth. He squeezed at the fistful of her ponytail he'd been clutching as she licked his dick like a lollipop. He tried to watch, but in the daze of his euphoria, his eyes wouldn't even stay open. "Shit," he whispered.

With her right hand wrapped around his thick length, Michonne continued to pump him gently while her mouth worked the tip. She alternated between long, delicate kisses that made his breath hitch and flicking her tongue across it, making his entire body quiver. She took her time, slowly taking in more of him with every suck. And as she devoured his salty skin, she thought about how much she liked his size – nothing crazy, but ample. When her jaw needed a break, she would use both her hands for full coverage. Her neck got its own workout trying to please him. It was a bit more than she was used to, but not more than she could handle.

It had been like this for a couple of weeks now – they'd meet for dinner and a bit of frivolous conversation, and for dessert, she'd give him head. Though not necessarily in that order. Rick couldn't pretend it wasn't strange to be in a sexual relationship – or a not quite relationship. A situation? Situationship? – where he didn't and couldn't give; only receive. It was what she wanted, so he went along with it, especially because she was so skilled at it. Those lips of hers. Shit. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could go without some reciprocity in this arena. He felt like he was taking advantage of her, and maybe it was actually the other way around, but in either case, it just didn't feel right. Even when it felt good as hell.

The room was quiet, almost silent, aside from Rick's labored breaths and the wet sound of her sucking him off. Every now and then, she would hear her name on his lips, falling from them in a hazy mumble. She loved that he wasn't shy about letting her know how good it felt. His whiskey-like voice softening into deep moans. Shit. That, alone, was enough to get her wet sometimes.

As she ran her tongue up and down his shaft, she pulled down the top of her camisole to reveal her breast, flicking and fondling her own nipple, the way she knew he liked. Their second time together, he asked her to take off her clothes; she didn't, but showed him her tits just the same, eliciting a grunt from him that she liked and wanted to hear again. So now she did it every time, letting her breasts spill from her top to give him a little show. She pretended her hand was his, teasing and tugging her stiffened nipples the way she imagined he would. "Mmm," she hummed to herself, undeniably aroused by the moment.

" _Fuck_ ," Rick moaned, feeling her swallowing him nearly whole. Her hot mouth had him writhing beneath her, his head pressed against the headboard, he unleashed his grip on her locs to clutch the sheets instead. His toes were locked tightly and on the verge of cramping as he felt himself on the precipice of an orgasm. He let out a sharp sigh of relief when her mouth released his cock and traded it for his balls, allowing him a moment to breathe. "I feel like I'm gonna die," he exhaled, his words strung together in an almost incoherent mumble.

But Michonne showed him no mercy, licking at every exposed inch of him, then retracing her steps. She smirked at his stomach contracting and expanding like crazy, visible proof that he was enjoying the shit out of her. And she loved the way he felt in her mouth – the ridges and curves of the tip of his dick, the veins against her tongue, his cum all warm and wet. She felt filthy and wild and free, and she never wanted to stop. "Let me know when," she said with a mouth full of him. Because even in this stage of wild freedom, she didn't quite like surprises.

" _When_ ," he answered quickly, and it was immediately followed by a gruff and unceremonious grunt to signal his release. His hips reflexively bucked upward as he felt his thighs go numb and his semen filled her mouth. But she didn't stop stroking and sucking, letting the white cream drip down her bottom lip and chin and dribble down his cock. Which only made him cum more.

But Michonne gulped it all down like milk and made sure to lick up the remnants so as not to leave a mess. She was gentle but efficient, and once certain he was empty, she massaged him back into his boxers, leaving him only semi-erect. Lastly, she pulled her shirt back into place and sat up on her knees to gaze upon her work. His flushed body, unable to move, the sated smile hanging on his lips. Another blow job well done.

"Goddamn…" he breathed, lacking any other coherent thoughts as he laid there senseless from the waist down. He found it funny that she seemed to approach this whole thing like a series of to-do boxes that needed to be checked off, but he supposed that was part of her charm. He was also too exhausted to say so. "Come here," he said. It was all he could muster as he tried to shift to his left and allow her some space.

Michonne smiled, satisfied with herself and his clear fulfillment. "It was good?" she confirmed, crawling up to her side of the bed to fall into the spot beside him.

"I'm convinced this is some elaborate ploy to kill me," he half-smiled. "Because that's what's gonna happen one of these days."

She chuckled as she wiped her mouth, the taste of him on her fingers. "I'm not," she promised, "but I appreciate this boost of confidence."

He turned to her, adjusting his pillow so that he could see her full face. "Can I return the favor yet?" He asked the question, already figuring the answer would be no. But still, he drank in her body, his gaze slipping down her shirt while his hand reached out to her waist, playing with the elastic lining of her panties, just waiting for permission to pull them off.

"No," she was quick to deny, though with a smile, and used her index finger to push his face back in the other direction. Things had been going so well with them – easy, for the most part – and she didn't want to change anything. Or ruin it by even discussing changing anything. "Get some ice cream if you want something else to eat," she joked.

He nodded as he laughed, rolling onto his side. He was enjoying her playful side and the fact that he'd gotten to see a lot more of it these last couple of weeks. She was so much more fun than she let on at the beginning. "All right," he conceded, "but you know I won't be here during the week anymore, so this'll be your last chance for a while."

Michonne balked at the reminder. She'd been dreading this ever since he told her he'd be spending more time in Nashville once school started again. And that was fine with her – he had other responsibilities, and they'd just have to see each other less. But now that it was here, she could admit, to herself at least, that she was disappointed. "I'm aware," she answered flatly, forcing herself to feign indifference. Her attachment to him was a bad idea, anyway. "I'll be busy with my classes and not even thinking about you, so don't worry." As she spoke, she repositioned sideways across the bed, using Rick's torso as her headrest. She liked feeling the warmth of his body against the back of her neck. He'd become so familiar to her in their short time together. When she managed to sleep, this was how – near him, next to him. She wasn't sure what she would do with him gone more often than not.

"I wasn't worried," Rick said once she got settled. "Just thought you'd like to know."

"Mm." Uninterested in furthering the conversation, she pointed to his night stand, hoping he'd take the nonverbal cue to pass her her book. She'd decided to take him up on his offer and read about ISIL – which was a weird thing to pick up every night after giving someone a blow job, but it had become her routine. Or  _theirs_ , rather. He'd be there beside her, reading her Chimamanda. He'd let out a laugh every now and then, rattling her, literally, from her own reading. Then they'd fall asleep, usually him before her, but not always. It'd been like this for over two weeks now and she liked it this way. That they could keep each other company without much conversation. She didn't have to feel like she was constantly lying to him every time they talked. Thereby disappointing him. They could just be.

"I'm gonna try to finish tonight," he declared proudly. "I've got just two chapters left."

"You're gonna fall asleep," Michonne chuckled knowingly. Again, she knew his routine. After she sucked the life out of him, he had  _maybe_  30 minutes before it caught up with him. He'd be snoring by midnight, she was sure. "But godspeed, my friend."

He smiled at being called her friend and opened his book to the place he left off. As he set his bookmark on his nightstand, he thought of Carl. He'd given him the bookmark years ago, something he made at school. Kindergarten. Now he was starting 3rd grade, which sounded crazy to him. Where the years had gone, he wasn't sure. Even being with Michonne, time didn't quite make sense. He'd barely known her a month, but in some ways, it felt like she'd always been there. This pattern they'd settled into felt good. He liked knowing he would get to see her every day. And he didn't want to fuck it up by asking for more – by asking for anything, really – but he felt like was living a double life, one in Nashville and one in Gatlinburg. Feeling like he had to keep her separate from the person that meant most to him, because she didn't like to talk about him much. Not that he wanted her to meet Carl tomorrow, but at some point, it would be nice. Maybe she just didn't like kids and this had no potential to go anywhere anyway, but he liked to believe she would like Carl. Everyone liked Carl. It wasn't something he should've been thinking about in that moment – it really was too soon – yet it wouldn't leave his mind.

"You're tense," Michonne commented casually as she turned the page. She could feel his chest tauten beneath her.

Rick chuckled, though unsure of what she'd said. "What?"

"You feel tense," she repeated. "What part are you on?"

"Oh, it's not the book," he said. "I was just… daydreamin', I guess."

"Hm." She accepted his answer and resumed her reading, enjoying the soft sound of his breathing and the faint feel of his pulse next to her face. It lulled her into a sense of safety and before too long, she felt her drowsiness tugging at her, a yawn on her lips. But she wasn't ready to go to sleep yet. "What time will you leave in the morning?" she asked.

"Probably around six," he said, trying and failing to stifle his own yawn. "I'll try not to wake you."

She wanted to tell him that she wouldn't mind, and even wanted to say goodbye before he left, but thought better of it before the words could materialize. "Okay," she said.

They went quiet again for several more minutes, only the faint noise of crickets breaking the comfortable silence between them. The room was cool, but Rick felt hot with Michonne laid against him. At one point, she began to pick at his leg hair and he knew she was probably just trying to keep herself awake. It made him laugh. "You ever been to Lagos?" he asked. It was in the interest of helping her stay awake, but he was also just curious.

Michonne's eyes rolled up at him, wary of where the random question was headed. "You know I'm not from Nigeria, right?"

"Of course I know that," he sighed, disappointed that she thought so little of him. He knew she was from Iowa and had inferred that her parents were from Haiti based on things she'd told him a few days ago. "I was askin' because of the book. And you mentioned traveling to Africa for work, but you didn't say where."

"Oh." She scoffed at the fact that she'd apparently been more forthcoming than she thought; but also appreciated that he remembered the things she'd told him. "Well I've been to Nigeria, but not Lagos," she said. "It was for research, so I didn't get to really explore it or anything."

"I've never even left the country," he said, a wistful regret in his tone. And he was talking to someone who'd been everywhere – six of the seven continents, at least – which only made him feel sillier. "Not even to the Caribbean, which isn't even that far."

"Why not?"

"When I was younger, I never had the money to go anywhere," he shook his head. "Now? I guess I just haven't had a reason to go."

"You don't need a reason," she said. "I wish I didn't have reasons so I could've actually enjoyed the places I've been."

Rick nodded, making a pledge to himself that he'd change that now that he had a bank account that would allow him to go wherever he wanted. He had every reason to show Carl the world and no reason not to. "Could you ever uproot your life and move to another continent?" he asked.

"Easily," she said, not having to think about it. If she were smarter, she would've gone farther than Tennessee when she left Atlanta.

He chuckled at how quickly she answered – he almost forgot he was talking to someone who did uproot her life. It wasn't another continent, but their little setup, up there in the woods, it was like another world.

"It's a good thing your people colonized so much of the world, so it'd be easy to find a place that speaks English."

He sighed, taking her glibness as a cue to stop talking. "All right, I'm going back to reading," he said. As much as he recognized that she was just trying to keep him at arm's length, he couldn't pretend it didn't frustrate him sometimes. So he continued to read through the tale of Ifemelu and Obinze, riveted, though also saddened by it in some ways, and he found himself rubbing Michonne's bare shoulder. It was an oblivious action, yet he was very aware of her skin beneath his fingertips and the fact that she hadn't stopped him; didn't even flinch. Each time he turned a page, his hand would land back there, as if it belonged there. As if it were a thing that always happened.

"School starts Monday?" Michonne asked after another few quiet minutes. Though she was fairly certain Carl didn't start until mid-week – she vaguely recalled Rick mentioning it because he found it strange.

"Wednesday," he said, distracted.

She wanted to ask why he had to leave so soon then. Common sense told her that it was to avoid all the weekday traffic heading back to Nashville, and probably even the schedule he had in place with his baby mama. But the selfish, illogical part of her didn't understand why he couldn't stay until Monday, at least. But she only responded with a nonchalant, "Mm."

"You okay?" he asked. He could hear something in her response that stole his attention from his reading, though in its shortness, he couldn't pinpoint what.

"I'm fine," she said.

He removed his hand from her shoulder, concerned that he was bothering her, but she was being too kind to say it. And before much longer, he felt her shift, all her body heat gone from his chest as she moved back to her side of the bed with a yawn. He looked over to her, amused, but also discouraged that he wouldn't get to wake up to this face again for a while. "Callin' it a night?"

"You wore me out," she confirmed, settling onto her stomach as she nestled into her pillow.

"I haven't done anything yet," he mumbled, and even though he knew this, he still felt a tinge of smug pride at the thought that giving him head had actually worn her out.

Michonne closed her eyes, and suddenly, scent became her dominant sense, the smell of Rick filling her nose. Soap and sex, which wasn't altogether pleasant, but it was comforting. As was the sound of him periodically turning pages, chuckling and acknowledging the most interesting moments contained within them. Her leg seemed to have a mind of its own as it snuck across the small space between them and locked with his. She had fallen... asleep before she knew it.

Meanwhile, Rick continued to read, determined to finish the story before he fell asleep. He loved when he got to that point in a book where putting it down just wasn't an option, not when he was so close to the end. He read with bated breath, curious as to how Obinze would fix things, all while not wanting him to. Some curious part of him wanted Ifem to move on. She was such a different person than the girl who left Lagos. So was he. But then, they still fit together so well, and it made sense that they would find their way back to one another.

As he made good on his pledge to finish, feeling like he'd been on some fantastic voyage and then dropped back on his doorstep, he stared at the novel's cover. And he quietly wondered whether Michonne had an Obinze, maybe back in Iowa, wishing she'd never left. Or was it the fiancé she'd spoken of on exactly two occasions? Did she think of him every day, even though she ran away from him? After all was said and done, would she just end up going back to him? It was a scary thought for Rick, and it shouldn't have been, considering he and Michonne weren't actually together. She barely had sex with him, and made it pretty clear that she wasn't looking for much beyond that. But it was a thought all the same.

And he was ready to let it disappear, reminding himself that he was the one she was wrapped around at the moment, but then there was a buzzing against his night stand. He looked to his phone first, forgetting that hers was plugged in alongside it, and her illuminated iPhone screen grabbed his attention like a blinking sign. The name 'Negan Mellone' accompanied a picture of a handsome white guy with dark hair and a grayish beard, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a wide, perfect smile. The buzzing stopped almost as quickly as it started, which confused Rick as much as it disquieted him – he could take a wild guess who it was. But even so, he promptly turned to Michonne.

"You just got a call," he announced in a hushed voice, slipping his hand beneath the sheets to gently squeeze her thigh. "Hey."

Michonne moaned at the nuisance of her sleep being interrupted, and she was too deep in it to take heed. She only shook her head and snuggled in closer to her companion.

He supposed he could only leave it at that. So he set his finished book on the nightstand with their phones and bottles of water, turned off the lamp, and with a hand rested on her backside, he fell asleep, too.

* * *

The next morning came much sooner than either of them were ready for. The rainy day had broken, leaving Rick even less enthused about the drive back to Nashville than usual. It would've been a perfect day to lie in bed all day, but alas, he had much to do back home. He'd promised Carl a trip to the Apple store after a necessary haircut, and they had to pick up soccer uniforms early Monday morning, followed by a first practice on Tuesday. And he was certain he'd have to make a last-minute run to Walmart for something Lori had forgotten on the supply list. Last year, she got Carl an Avengers backpack when he'd specifically asked for just the design of the Captain America shield – it was a whole ordeal. So this year, he would be prepared.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, he was relieved to find that Michonne had awaken, so he would get to say a proper goodbye after all. "Mornin'," he greeted her, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Hey," she answered absently. She was scrolling through her most recent unread emails, all 300 of them, looking for something she was unsure existed. In that moment, Rick was only a distraction.

Morning light suited her, he thought – even this gloomy version of it. The white sheets and her tank top absorbed the light and contrasted her skin in the most beautiful way. "The way you were snoring, I just knew you were still gonna be asleep when I left," he chuckled, deciding not to reveal his nicer thoughts.

Michonne smirked in reply, but didn't have much else to give him. "Nice try, but I don't snore."

She was staring at her phone, which was so unlike her, Rick couldn't help but take notice. Someone who rarely even had her phone with her, she now had some preoccupation with it that wouldn't allow her to give her undivided. He waited a few minutes, going on to find underwear and a cleanish pair of jeans to throw on before returning his focus to her. "Everything okay?" he asked. The sudden change in her worried him, and he could only surmise that it had to do with that mysterious late night call from 'Negan'.

"Everything's fine," she sighed. It was a bit of a lie – Negan had called and she didn't know why, which bothered her much more than it should've. She hadn't thought of him in a while, not significantly; and now he was back on her mind in a way she didn't want. So she wasn't sure whether the lie was for Rick or for herself. "Just… trying to figure something out," she shook her head. But when she realized Rick was staring at her, waiting for her to finish, she threw her phone back to his nightstand, forcing herself to chalk it up to a drunk dial and forget about it. Until he was gone, at least.

Rick knew she was holding something back, but he also knew better than to press her on it. He'd learned that she would tell him what she wanted him to know, and she would do it when she was ready. And if he were being honest with himself, he just wasn't ready to confront his fears about whoever this guy was. Not after everything he'd been through with Lori. Instead, he took a seat on the bed, needing to address a different elephant in the room before he left for several days. "So when I come back," he said, "I'm hoping we can make a few changes."

Michonne stared at him tentatively, and as she felt his hand on her bare foot, his thumb running across her toes, in what she presumed was a show of affection, she wiggled it from his grasp. "What kind of changes?" she wondered. Her whole body tensed, thinking this would be the moment he asked her to meet his son. Why couldn't he just enjoy what they had?

"This… arrangement," he said, shrugging, unsure what else to call it. His face turning a bright pink color gave another clue as to what exactly he was referring to. "I'm - I mean, as much as I enjoy you… doing what you're doing, it feels imbalanced.'

She let out a small exhale of relief – she was much more comfortable with this subject than his kid, and that wasn't saying much. "I feel like if anyone would complain about that, it would be me," she said, laughing in a way that sounded like a scoff.

"Which begs the question why you're not," he chuckled back. "Not that I'm trying to pressure you, or even… if you don't wanna talk about it, we don't have to. But I am curious."

Michonne nodded. She should've been expecting this. She'd been leaning into the idea that most men would be quite content with just getting head every night, not having to do anything in return for it. But Rick wasn't most men. "I just… don't feel comfortable. Yet." She felt herself involuntarily recoil, as if to prove her point. Her arms crossed over her chest so that her breasts, with only the cover of a thin tank top, were no longer on display. She shifted to a crosslegged position, so that her legs no longer touched his. "That time we tried, it was just too much for me," she said. "I was so inside my head, I couldn't even enjoy it."

"In your head about what?" he gently prodded her.

"Just… I dunno," she sighed again, too scared to reveal too much of herself still. "I don't know that I deserve to feel good," she admitted.

"Michonne, why-"

"I know that's not true," she appended, seeing the pity already taking form on his face. "It's just… I've got shit I need to sort out. And sex is a big part of that shit, I guess. But… it's easier to focus on you. I like doing it."

Rick nodded, appreciative of her honesty. He'd figured out a lot of this along the way, but he was still missing the 'why' of it all. But it was nice to hear the words come from her; to know that she was trying to trust him. "So do you think it's possible we can help you through that?"

"'We'?" she smiled timidly.

"I mean, we're doin' this… whatever it is. I don't wanna be in a relationship, sexual or otherwise, where you do all the work. Even if you like it, it just doesn't feel right for me, and I think if we could knock down this wall you have up, we'd both be better off for it."

Michonne rolled her eyes, mostly at herself, because she'd somehow found the perfect man – while she was at the most fucked up she'd ever been. What a world. "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable," she shook her head, understanding his position. "If you want to, we can just go back to being neighbors who don't engage in sexual activity."

"You know that's not what I want," he smirked, standing from the bed to finally finish dressing himself. He got the feeling that being so close was adding to her discomfort. "I want us to navigate whatever your insecurity is so we can actually have sex." As he found a gray t-shirt in his dresser and made quick work of pulling it on, he kept his gaze on her, watching for a physical response if he wasn't going to get a verbal one. "If that's what you want."

"And if it's not what I want?"

"Then I guess we do go back to bein'  _neighbors_  who don't have sex."

"Fine, friends," she sighed, detecting his discontent with her calling them neighbors. "You know what I meant."

"I did. But I didn't wanna overwhelm you with labels," he joked, his slim frame leaning against his dresser then. "I know how you are."

"Right," she smirked and had to stop herself from laughing. As much as she didn't want to admit it, he really did seem to know how she operated. She watched as he went to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water for the trip, and it struck her how common this had all become to her. A few weeks ago, she was appalled by the thought of him leaving her there alone. Now, half naked in his bed, it was the only thing that felt right. He'd broken down some of her walls already; maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if he got to a few more. "While you're gone, I'll definitely think about this," she said, using her finger to gesture between them.

"All right," he nodded, licking his lips as he gazed back at her. The tension in the room seemed to be both rising and dissipating, the awkward energy between them turning sexual as she stared at him too, unshy about eyeing him from head to toe. He hoped it meant she'd be open to him by the time he returned. In more ways than one.

"I might need a little more time," she admitted quietly. "Especially where oral is concerned," she said. "I've been... squeamish about it for a while now, so I don't know  _if_  I'll ever be ready for that, much less when. But I'm gonna think about it."

Rick frowned at that last tidbit, disappointed. "Do you not like the way it feels?"

"No, it's not really that." Her brows also furrowed as she tried to remember the last time Negan went down on her. It had been over a year now, she was pretty sure. After she got pregnant, he didn't like the way she tasted, so he'd stopped pretty early in her first trimester. But before that, it was good. Good enough. "It just feels very intimate to have someone's face between your thighs."

He chuckled, understanding the issue now – since she obviously didn't mind when the roles were reversed. "You're scared of being out of control," he commented as if it were fact. "Got it."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

She opened her mouth to rebut, but took the moment to think about it instead. And he was right. She was scared of handing over the reins.

"I'm good at it," he said evenly – again as if these were statements that couldn't be refuted. "You'll be glad you gave up control."

Michonne let out a spontaneous sigh as her stomach fluttered with excitement. Her toes began to nervously tingle while her face grew hot. She didn't know how to respond to any of this. "You should get outta here," she decided to say, thankful that the heavy rainfall had given her an excuse to push him out of the door. "It's gonna be a long drive in this weather."

Rick nodded cockily as he sauntered across the room, knowing he'd struck a nerve there. "Do I get a kiss goodbye?"

"You know that's not what this is," she shook her head, a smile on her face. Sometimes she worried that he would never stop trying to turn them into a relationship. Things were going so well, the quiet ease between them, but that part unsettled her.

"You haven't brushed your teeth yet, so it's probably for my own good anyway," he teased her.

She looked over to the nightstand wishing she had something harmless to throw at him. Instead, her face fell as she realized how long it would be before she saw him again. Nearly two weeks. "Okay okay, get over here."

"Nope, that's not what this is," he mocked her, continuing to the door to retrieve his keys. And he would've walked out, leaving it at that, but there was a book sitting on the table beside the door; beneath his keys so he'd know to take it, he presumed.  _A Parent's Survival Guide to Common Core Math_. It stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back to Michonne, practically beaming. He was never sure that she was listening when he spoke, but she'd clearly heard him when he talked of his troubles figuring out Carl's 'new' math. She was quite sweet when she wanted to be. "Well look at you, caring about me."

"Don't get used to it," she answered flatly as she watched him crawl across the bed to get to her. She had to suppress a smile as she added, "I just didn't want you calling me for help while you're gone."

"You would love it if I called you for help," he grinned knowingly. He planted a quick, grateful peck on her lips, and there was a swell of satisfaction when he felt the gentle pull of her returning the kiss. He probably shouldn't have liked her as much as he did. He knew that. He could feel it every time she tried to pull away from him. With every white lie she told. Her unwillingness to define them should've been a big red flag. But then she would do something like this, or in a rare show of earnestness, confess to missing him while he was gone; and suddenly, it didn't matter that she would rather give him a blow job than have a conversation with him; that she liked being close to him, but still did her best to maintain a healthy distance. He was going to ignore the red flags. Because whatever this was – or wasn't – it was something. And he needed something.


	8. Tip of My Tongue

"Dad, I need you to settle this argument I'm having with Enid."

"Okay," Rick chuckled, anticipating the question. His gaze instinctively wandered to the table a few feet away where Carl's best friend sat with her parents, enjoying the First Day breakfast, same as he and Carl. "Should we at least wait until Enid can argue her side?"

"No, I'm gonna tell you her side," he explained, his face already lit up with excitement. "She thinks it's unfair to say that Iron Man is stronger than Spider-Man because Tony Stark has a suit and Peter Parker doesn't."

Rick nodded, his eyes narrowing as he tried to process her point of view. He even stroked his chin for good measure, emphasizing that he was taking this seriously. "Okay, and what's your side?"

"My side is that Spider-Man also had a spider bite to make him strong and that's the same as having a suit. We have to judge them by their super powers, whatever they might be."

"I see," he nodded again. He had to stop himself from laughing at how passionately his son was arguing this. "But maybe there's a case to be made about the fact that Spider-Man's abilities can't be taken away from him? If something happens to Tony's suit, is he still stronger than Peter?"

Carl stared at his dad with those identical eyes, then took a big bite of his pancake before answering. "Maybe," he granted, albeit begrudgingly. "But after  _Civil War_ , I don't think Tony would ever be without his suit. And even if he was, he's still really smart. So he would figure a way out."

"So then maybe you're right," Rick said.

" _I_  think so," Carl said, "but you know how Enid is. I think she'd argue with me if I said the sky was blue."

Rick smiled because it was true – those two argued like an old married couple. "Nothin' wrong with a little healthy debate," he smirked, watching his kid scarf down another half of his pancake in one bite. "What are you gonna do without her in the same class this year?"

"Probably get better grades," he said sarcastically.

He nearly spit out his coffee laughing at the unexpected quip. His kid really was too smart for his own good sometimes. "You're silly," he grinned.

Carl opened his mouth to respond, but before words could come out, he spotted his mother enter the cafeteria with Shane, and he let out a small gasp instead. "It's Mom," he exclaimed.

Rick was oblivious and hoped he'd just missed something in the conversation, but when he turned toward the double-door entrance, indeed Lori and her boyfriend were headed for their table, dressed more for church than work. He let out a heavy sigh, bracing himself for the interaction.

"Hi, hi," Lori greeted the duo, waving, with a bright smile to match her tone, as if she were supposed to be there. She leaned in to give Carl a kiss on the cheek before wiping away her dark pink lip gloss. "How are you?"

"Hey, man," Shane said to Rick before looking to Carl. "Hey, little man."

"Hey, Shane," Carl waved back. "I didn't know you guys were coming."

"Well I wouldn't miss your first day of school," Lori chuckled, sliding into the seat beside Rick; leaving Shane to sit next to their son.

Rick's entire body tensed as the situation unfolded, feeling like he was in some bad dream – this closely related to a recurring nightmare he had, in fact. This was his day with his son. He and Lori hadn't discussed her coming to the breakfast, and even if that didn't warrant a conversation – because he did understand her not wanting to miss a first day – there was certainly no conversation about bringing Shane. Probably because Lori knew that he would say no. Or at least, if she ever took time to think about anyone but herself, she would've known that. "Well we were just finishing up," he said, clearing his throat. He usually had to tell Carl to slow down with his food, but in that moment, Rick was relieved he ate so quickly.

"Oh." Lori looked at their nearly emptied plates, disappointed. "Well that's my fault. I thought it started at eight."

"I knew that sounded too late," Shane chuckled, shaking his head. "I told her, 'Doesn't class start at 8:20, Lori?' But she swore up and down I was wrong."

"Mom only picks me up on Fridays, so it makes sense she forgot," Carl reminded the table.

"I just thought they were pushing back the start time for this," she defended herself. "7:30 is so early."

"Most parents have to go to work," Rick submitted, his tone dry and his voice hoarse. He wanted to leave. Literally get up from the table mid-sentence. "They tried to make it convenient for everyone."

"Well…" Lori sighed. "At least we made it in time to see you off to class."

Carl smiled at his mother. He was still getting used to the idea of his parents being apart, and he was glad – relieved, really – that they still came together when it had something to do with him, at least. Maybe they wouldn't live in the same house, but they would both be at his karate matches and science presentations. That meant a lot to him. "I'm glad you came," he nodded. "You too, Shane."

"Glad to be here, man," Shane winked at him.

"You're not gonna eat any more?" Lori asked Rick, noting the half a pancake left on his plate. Knowing the school and seeing how many people were there, she figured he didn't get much in the first place.

"I'm good." His mind immediately drifted to Michonne, wondering what she was doing at the moment. They tended to share a quick breakfast in the morning before she snuck away for the day.

Lori took it upon herself to slide Rick's plate over, finishing his unfinished meal. "So tell us, what are you most excited for today?" she asked Carl. She was gazing at him intently, as if she might forget his face.

Carl took a moment to think about it even though he already knew his answer. "Definitely lunch."

The table laughed, but they all knew that wasn't true. "Be serious," Lori encouraged him. "It's the first day of school. You have lunch every day. Surely you're happy to be here for a reason."

"I am looking forward to art," Carl admitted with a shrug. "But I dunno if we have that today."

"Like father like son," she remarked to Shane. She'd told him before how talented Rick was with his creations. They were works of art, truly.

"Very nice," Shane nodded at the kid in approval. "I was terrible in school. I mainly excelled in P.E."

Carl and Lori laughed, but Rick was getting more perturbed by the second, having to sit there and act like they were one big, happy family. He was glad that other tables had begun to clear and they had an excuse to get the hell out of there. "We should probably get you to class, huh?" he said it to Carl, but it was more for the table's other occupants.

"Oh, yeah," Carl realized. "We heard Ms. Abrams doesn't do assigned seats, so I wanna get a good one."

"Oh, well then we won't keep you," Lori said. As she slid out from her seat, she made sure to take the rest of Rick's pancake to go. Once Carl was up, she gave his outfit a once-over, checking that his light blue shirt and khakis were properly ironed and tucked in, per school rules. He wore a dark brown pair of boat shoes that made him look much more dapper than she was used to. It had always been a fight to get him out of his dirty sneakers. "Whoa, where did those come from?" she asked, clearly impressed.

"Those are nice, man," Shane agreed.

Carl grinned proudly, feeling like he'd gotten a seal of approval. "Dad got 'em for me."

Lori turned back to Rick with mild surprise in her expression. "When did you get taste?" she joked.

He wanted to ignore her comment – funny enough, he didn't mind Michonne's ribbing, even kind of enjoyed it sometimes, but when Lori did it, he was just annoyed – but he shrugged instead. "I just thought they looked nice."

The foursome continued into the main part of the school, accompanying Carl to his new class for the next nine months. Lori took the space next to the kid, leaving Rick and Shane to head down the crowded halls side-by-side. They said their goodbyes and exchanged their hugs and offered Carl their best wishes before leaving him socializing with his friends. Once they navigated their way back to the parking lot, Rick wanted nothing more than to get away from Lori and Shane, going on his merry way until it was time to pick up the boy at 3:00. But he remembered what Michonne said about keeping his feelings bottled up, and so, he couldn't leave without speaking on this.

"Lori, can I talk to you for a minute," he requested before the happy couple could get too far away.

She turned back to him, but gave Shane a long look, as if she needed to clear it with him, before obliging. "Sure," she said.

He nodded and then waited until her boyfriend was out of earshot before speaking. "You can't do stuff like this," he said as calmly as he could. "Showing up unannounced  _and_  with him?"

"Oh come on, Rick. It's the first day of school."

"And it's  _my_  day," he reminded her. "Which means I get to decide whether I want you around. It certainly means I get to decide whether I want him around."

"Are you serious?"

"Are you?" he shot back. "You're with him. I get it. But he's not my family, and I don't wanna see him every time I turn around."

"He's trying to be proactive."

"He's being overactive," Rick said. "I've worked with you all summer long, and especially these last few weeks, where you two overstepped your boundaries on more than one occasion. So I need you to take me seriously or we can start talking to lawyers again. There was no reason he needed to be here."

Lori nodded, recognizing that she hadn't been the most considerate person in this whole thing. She was so unused to the idea of not seeing her son every day, she was probably overcompensating with Shane, trying to recreate this two-parent household that didn't really exist. "I know this dynamic is strange," she acknowledged. "It's weird for all of us, and I'm still trying to strike that balance. Especially with Shane. He likes Carl so much, and I think he just wants to make sure we all know it."

"I think we get the point," Rick noted.

"You can't really mad about that?"

Of course he wasn't. He wished he could be, but given how much he ached for Michonne to even want to hear about Carl, it felt like a lie to even pretend that bothered him. "I'm not."

"And I'm sure part of it, for you, is feeling like you're being pushed out. Especially because you don't have anyone right now. And I should be more mindful of that."

This time, he rolled his eyes. She was so pompous sometimes. As if finding someone new was some grand accomplishment. "All right," he sighed. "Just be more considerate of my time with my son. And tell your boyfriend to give us some space."

"I will," she promised. She watched him nod and turn to walk away, but before he could take more than a couple of steps, she called after him. "Hey, Rick?"

"Yeah?" he turned back to her.

" _Have_  you thought about moving on?" she asked, her voice gentle and cautious. "'Cause I mean there were quite a few women looking for you at open house last week."

He chuckled through his nose, lacking any sort of substantive response to that. "I'm all right," he assured her.

"Rick, you have to have a life outside of Carl," she said. "You need someone for you."

Rick couldn't believe she was trying to give him love advice. "I'm good," he repeated. He knew Lori well enough to know that she probably didn't  _really_  want him to move on; she just wanted to absolve herself of her guilt. And at the same time, she'd likely feel slighted whenever he did find someone. He didn't need to open up that can of worms, certainly not when he and Michonne's ill-defined situationship was all he had to speak of. Of course, that didn't stop him smirking as he turned to leave.

* * *

It had been a week with Rick gone, and Michonne found herself thriving up in the mountains on her own. Luckily, she had a class to prepare for, so she'd spent much of her time writing up her syllabus and lecture plans. She had 23 students signed up for her course so far, which was exciting – when her course was approved, she told herself that a class of 20 would be a success, so exceeding that goal had her feeling herself. Now, she just needed them not to drop the class once she was face-to-face with said students.

She'd gone over to the school on Friday to view her actual classroom, which was adequate. She would share an office with another adjunct professor, Dr. Monroe, whom she'd yet to meet, but upon inspection of the space, found that he kept a pair of birkenstocks in one of the desk drawers, which told her enough. Despite it, she looked forward to the first day.

Beyond that, she was even getting used to her general existence in Tennessee. On her way back from UT, she stocked up on produce at a Whole Foods near Knoxville, so she'd been eating good all week long. She still went to Food City for her unhealthy snacks though, and even managed a 20-minute conversation with Carol without wanting to rip her eyelashes off. She accidentally found out that Carol was a doula in her spare time, specializing in postpartum work, which unnerved Michonne more than she wanted to admit – was that why she'd taken such an interest in her? Was she psychic too? But admittedly, it was nice to know someone in that town other than Rick. She even considered joining her on Saturday night for a drink at that tacky bar, but thought better of it. She still had her limits, and trying to do too much too soon would probably backfire.

Instead, she spent the evening with Netflix, her favorite episodes of The Office keeping her company while she tried to make herself pizza. It didn't go well, but the effort was a good enough way to pass the time. Rick texted late that night, and they had a brief back-and-forth, mostly about Carl's old teacher asking him on a date, which amused Michonne as much as it annoyed her. And she could admit that her irritation was propelled by the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about what Rick said – how he was "good" at eating pussy, and the idea that he was eagerly anticipating eating hers. It stayed on her mind, especially in those quiet moments at the end of the day when she was trying to go to sleep. It didn't work, the whole sleep thing. Sometimes she'd have day naps. But at night, she'd lie awake, often with images of Rick's head between her thighs. She hadn't had an orgasm in over half a year, but she was seriously considering letting him try.

But mostly, life without Rick had been quiet. Not unlike life with him, she supposed. She had been enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon at Rick's creek, wrapped up in a blanket as she read one of his books. She had her phone with her, just in case he decided to call, but she got an even better surprise when her phone vibrated against her thigh and Sasha's name and face appeared on the screen. Michonne had reached out to her four times since their last conversation – most recently after the random call she'd received from Negan a week ago – but this was the first time she'd gotten a response.

"Oh, so you are alive," she answered dryly. It was much the same way she used to greet her friend, with anything other than 'Hello', back before she lost her happy.

"I know," Sasha sighed into the phone. She was so grateful to hear her friend's voice, even after ignoring it for the better part of three weeks. "Hey."

"Where the hell have you been?" Michonne asked.

"Spain," she answered simply, her tone almost indignant. "And… I was mad at you, so I wasn't trying to use my international minutes on calling you back."

Michonne took a moment to process the fact that her best friend had left the country and she had no idea. And she wanted to be mad about that – she was, really – but she also knew she had no right to hold it against her. Not after what she'd done. "Well that sounds nice," she said instead. "You went to visit Rosi's family?"

"No, just for a vacation this time," she answered breezily. "We went to Seville."

"Mm."

Sasha ignored her friend's obvious irritation and told her, "I did get your message though." She was referring to her latest text, asking about Negan. "I haven't seen him since before I left." Her voice dropped a few decibels as she went on to say, "But I did hear that Miss Lucille had a stroke a few days ago."

Michonne felt her breath catch in her throat at the news. "What?"

"She's okay," she was quick to assure her. "Dwight flew back to New York with him, and he said she's recovering well. Negan was probably just shaken up when he heard."

"Of course," Michonne frowned. She imagined he felt pretty low if it was bad enough to call her. And now she hated herself for not waking up that night when Rick told her to. But then, what would she have said? What would  _he_  have said? Would he have asked her to come home? Would she have accommodated? Maybe the reason he didn't leave a message or try to call again was because he knew as well as she did that their relationship was over. Their bond severed. She'd made sure of that. "Should I call him?" she wondered out loud, ignoring everything she'd just told herself.

Sasha sighed again, unsure of the answer to that question. The last time she saw Negan, at their friend's birthday party, he was so mad at Michonne, he wouldn't even speak to  _her_. He was hurt, undoubtedly, but she genuinely didn't know whether hearing from Michonne now would make that better or worse. "I dunno, sis."

"I don't either," she said, her voice relaying her lack of confidence.

"He only called you the one time?"

"Yeah," Michonne sniffled, her eyes watering as she thought of Lucille. "I mean, this is after he called me a cunt via voicemail and told me to leave him alone since I couldn't give him anything else."

"Wait,  _what_ ," Sasha asked, incredulous. "When?"

"A few weeks ago," she shrugged. "The first time I called you," she added quietly.

"Shit."

"It's fine."

"That's not fine," Sasha said. "I mean,  _maybe_  you deserved what he said," she joked, "but I should've been better for you."

"Sasha, you've been good to me," Michonne shook her head. "Too good sometimes." She surveyed the scene in front of her, wishing her friend could see how much better she was doing there in Tennessee. She wasn't great, not by a long shot, but she was better. "Even when you understand someone's shit, it doesn't stop you from getting tired of it sometimes. You needed a break."

"After the way you left, I was hurt," she admitted. "So yeah, maybe I did need a break from you."

Michonne laughed at her honesty. It was the thing she loved most about her. "It's probably good that you left me to fend for myself for a little while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "I've been okay."

"Does that mean… I can come see you?" Sasha asked carefully. Hopefully.

"Sasha," Michonne groaned. Last thing she wanted, when they were on the cusp of feeling like themselves again, was to get into this conversation. One where she'd have to reject her yet again.

"It's been a whole ass month," Sasha reminded her. "When's the last time we were apart this long?"

"When you met that dancer and you swore you found 'the one', so you let her talk you into ditching your friends for almost three months."

"Okay, well I don't know why you're bringing up old stuff right now," she giggled at the embarrassing memory. "But that's not the point."

"Uh huh."

"I just wanna see your face and know you're okay."

"We can talk on FaceTime," Michonne offered.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I do," she granted, sobering from their silly banter. "But I really am okay. I think I made the right choice."

Sasha nodded to herself. That was a relief to hear, if nothing else. "I think about you every day," she said, her sincerity palpable. "I tried to use Find My iPhone to track you down."

Michonne laughed. "I was smart enough to turn that off."

"Well I was thinking, what if that guy you told me about tried to kill you? What if you needed me to come through like Rod in  _Get Out_?"

"You were gonna be my TSA?"

"Yes, bitch."

"You are crazy," Michonne giggled, amused to no end. God, she missed her.

"Damn right I am."

"Well, I'm pretty sure Rick's not gonna kill me," she promised.  _Unless it's in the bedroom_ , she thought.

"Oh, it's  _Rick_  now," Sasha teased. The last time they spoke, he was just 'a guy.' "I take it that means you've talked to him," she concluded, conveying her intrigue at the same time.

"You could say that," Michonne replied coyly. Once again, thinking about what Rick told her before he left.

Sasha gasped, hearing the giant hint in her coquettish tone. "What did you do?"

"I've gotten to know him," she shrugged again.

"In the biblical sense?"

"We probably shouldn't bring the Bible into this," Michonne quipped, sticking her tongue out as she laughed at herself.

" _Yes_ , bitch!" Sasha submitted excitedly.

"No, but really," she went on, her tone turning serious. "You know I haven't been comfortable with sex in a long time, but with him… it had only been a week and I wanted to try."

"And it was good?"

"It was terrible," Michonne said, giggling again. "Not because of him, but because I wasn't ready. So I've just been pleasuring him every night, and I've liked it."

" _Really_?" Sasha asked, unsure what to say. Particularly because the thought of a penis in her mouth made her want to throw up.

"Really," she sighed. "But... he doesn't like the imbalance," she explained, rolling her eyes at how perfect he insisted on being, "so I think I'm gonna try again."

"Really?" Sasha repeated, her timbre lowering this time. "Who the hell is this guy?"

Michonne went on to explain how she and Rick ended up where they did. How it started with dinner and harmless dialogue. That when she found out he had a son, she wanted to go screaming for the hills, but the fact that he often had to leave to take care of that son meant that she had space to breathe. To miss him. And that the time they spent together felt easy, unlike every moment with Negan over the past several months. How she even managed to sleep, sometimes well, when she was with Rick. And she knew it didn't make sense, that someone who wanted to be alone also wanted to be with this one person exclusively, as if he were her little secret, and she his, but… it was true.

Sasha was almost speechless at these developments. The Michonne that left Atlanta was only a shell of her former self. And now, she seemed, not like her old self, but maybe a combination of old and someone new? Someone she didn't quite know. Should she be happy for her? Concerned? It was hard to tell. "So... do you see this being a long term thing with Rick? Is he actually your type?"

Michonne purposely avoided the question about whether she and Rick could ever be long term. They weren't even a thing, as far as she was concerned, so assigning some estimation to it seemed silly. "I don't know if I have a type," she said with a wistfulness in her words. "He's sweet. Completely unpretentious, but he's smart. Intellectual, even. He has these rough edges, but he's so soft. And he understands the value of silence." She closed her eyes, thinking of him. "He has good taste," she said. "If I had a type, I guess it would be him?"

"Mmh," Sasha remarked emphatically, feeling that description on a spiritual level. "Wait, he's not, like, a Twitter intellectual, is he?" The types that used big, often empty words, unable to just enjoy a simple thing without turning it into a deeper discussion. Usually about race. She had an ex like that, it drove her insane.

Michonne chuckled. "No," she said. "You know how I feel about that whole 'woke bae' thing." She was rolling her eyes at the term as it came out of her mouth. "I don't think it's performative," she said thoughtfully. "I think he's just genuinely curious. And open. I don't always like talking, but I like listening to him."

"More than you could ever say for Negan," Sasha casually noted.

"That's not fair," Michonne countered. "I listened to him."

"If only he said something you were interested in."

Michonne went quiet, searching for a defense, and she wasn't sure whether it was for Negan or herself. "People don't have to have everything in common," she said. "Sometimes you teach other."

"Right..."

"It's true."

"You never talked about Negan the way you have about this Rick guy."

"Why would I talk about two different people the same way?"

"Mm-hm."

"Sasha."

"Listen, I have no skin in this," Sasha said. "For all I know, this guy is an axe murderer and I should be pushing you back toward your fiancé—"

"Ex-fiancé," Michonne corrected her.

"I should be telling you to come home and find a therapist and work through this like I know you can…"

"Sasha—"

" _But_ ," she cut her off to continue, "you say you made the right choice, and I believe you. I'm hearing you with signs of life for the first time in in a long time. The laughter in your voice. You're talking about sex," she said with marvel in her own voice. "It's the first time in five months I don't feel this overwhelming sense of worry for you. And if it's because of the place you're in, or the the guy you're with, or you just really needed to get away from this… then I dunno, I guess I'm here for all of it."

"I appreciate that," Michonne said.

"Now if I know you, you're gonna get off this phone and think about Negan and Lucille for much too long." She paused when Michonne laughed, knowing damn well she knew she was right. "But please don't use them as an excuse to backslide," Sasha advised her. "He called once and never called back, he didn't need you that bad."

Michonne smiled, recognizing her friend's efforts to exonerate her. "I appreciate that, too."

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd let Rick return the favor you've been doing him," Sasha offered as her final piece of advice. "He can call me for some tips if he needs to, but if you're gonna refuse a professional, at least get yourself some sexual healing. Shit."

"I hate you," Michonne grinned.

"I love you," Sasha said earnestly.

Michonne nodded, fighting every instinct she had not to hop in her car and drive back to Atlanta, just to give her friend a big hug. "I love you too, Sash."

* * *

Friday, at last. Rick had been awaiting this evening since he left Gatlinburg twelve days prior. He was glad that he and Michonne left on good terms, so he had something to look forward to, but it also made the time go by so much slower. He thought about her every night, but made sure to text sporadically. He didn't want to be a nuisance – especially when she was already so gun shy. So he was pleasantly surprised when she would initiate a conversation with him, asking about his day, or telling him about hers. She'd finally begun teaching her course at UT, and on the first day, she sent a simple, honest text to him that morning:  _I'm nervous_. It was the one time they spoke on the phone while he was gone. He told her she would be fine, her sparkling personality would surely dazzle them. He said it teasingly, but he also meant it in a way. Because he knew how she was about her work. She loved to learn and it showed. It shone. So even if she was often quiet and reserved with him – and sometimes, not even that – he knew she would be fine with her students. And she was.

It would be strange to only have two days with her now, as opposed to the full work week he'd gotten used to. Their uninterrupted string of 4 or 5 days together was suddenly cut in half. Just when they were truly getting close, getting used to this formula of theirs. He wasn't even sure what they'd do with such little time, which made him nervous.

Nervous because he hadn't felt this way about a woman in so long. He was attracted to everything about her, and he wasn't afraid of that, but also knew he had to hold back in showing it, for fear of scaring her. Because he knew she wasn't necessarily in a position to reciprocate, even if she wanted to. And he was fairly certain that she wanted to. But the unknownness of it all was also exciting in a way; he enjoyed the anticipation that had built in his chest about seeing her again. When he pulled up to his home, he could see her sitting on his porch, waiting for him, he presumed, and he thought, he hoped, maybe that feeling was mutual.

Michonne had been at Rick's house for nearly half the day, using her idle time waiting to make dinner. She'd decided on a panzanella salad, figuring it would keep well since she didn't know exactly when he'd be back. Their last rendezvous was at his place, so she knew he would've come to her – he always tried to be fair – but one of these days she would tell him she preferred the charm of his quaint home, she'd come to realize. It felt different, yet familiar. Warm. Not unlike Rick, actually.

The unmistakable sound of his truck made her practically jump out of her seat. Twelve days was a long time without the only person she really knew. She unraveled herself from her blanket and headed down the steps to meet him, the setting sun casting a pretty pinkish glow over their neighborhood. They reunited at the edge of the driveway, and as Rick came into view, Michonne wasn't sure that glow hadn't blinded her. While he was gone, he'd mentioned getting a haircut since his son had gotten one for school, but naturally, at the mention of Carl, she'd all but tuned him out. Now, she wished she'd prepared herself for the sight of Rick without all that hair on his head and face. His long curls had been chopped to a more refined length, leaving waves instead of the fluffy tendrils that typically adorned his neck. His beard was completely gone, showing off his dimpled cheeks and the fullness of his lips. He looked like a Disney prince.

She stared for much longer than appropriate, awed by the fact that he was even more attractive than she bargained for under all that hair. "I've… I've never seen your face like that," she grinned. It was a silly thing to say – obviously, he knew that – but she had nothing of import in the moment. His bone structure had rendered her speechless.

Rick smiled back bashfully, relieved that she liked it. "I thought it was best not to scare all Carl's friends with the mountain man look."

She approached him gingerly, wanting a closer look, but his gaze caught hers first, their eyes doing a flirtatious dance and she wasn't sure whether or not to kiss him. So she didn't. Instead, again, she replied with the first thing on her mind. "Here I was looking forward to feeling that beard between my thighs."

His eyebrows raised with surprise, followed by the acknowledgment of the maxi dress she was wearing. He'd never seen her in one before – it was generally tight jeans and a tank top, usually accompanied by a sweater until she changed into some form of sleepwear. But today, there was definitely a marked difference. The dress was a heather gray – a color that did her no justice – but the way the fabric hugged her perfect figure was quite the opposite. Just enough cleavage to whet his appetite, and as he followed her up the steps, there was a jiggle to her step that mesmerized him; especially with the fabric clinging to her wondrously round backside, even getting stuck between her cheeks as she walked. His jeans got a little tighter as he imagined seeing what was underneath that dress again – if her joke was any indication, maybe sooner than later.

"What do you think we should we do for dinner," Rick would ask once he returned from a quick but much needed trip to the bathroom. When he walked out, she was in the kitchen, pouring herself a big glass of wine. Her hair was up in a big bun on top of her head, allowing him a view of the full shape of her face. He wondered what it was like to have a perfect face like that. He imagined her being stopped everywhere she went. He questioned whether he'd ever witness that firsthand. "Maybe we could venture into town for somethin'," he suggested.

Michonne looked at him then, amused. He was so cute. She was glad he couldn't see what was on her mind at the moment. "Really?" she asked. It was the first time he'd ever suggested something like that, and she didn't know how to respond. Especially when she just wanted to be alone with him. "Like a date?"

He shrugged as he moved to join her at the counter, feeling a bit naked under her stare. She was looking at him as if he were a stranger. "I dunno. You seem dressed up."

"I'm not," she assured him, taking a sip of her wine before offering him the glass. "I made something for us."

"Oh, good," he replied, appreciating her ceaseless efficiency. He also took a sip, mostly to avoid her gaze, because he wasn't sure what she was looking at. He hoped it was just because she liked seeing his face, but he wasn't sure, which left him blushing.

"Can I touch it?" she asked, her voice thin; nervous to speak her desire out loud.

"What?" he chuckled softly.

"Your face," she said. She realized what an odd request it was, but he just looked so handsome, his skin so soft, her hands were tingling to feel it. Like an electricity coursing through her, her attraction to him pushing through to her fingertips.

He nodded for her to do so, their eyes locking as she moved in close and pressed her warm hand to his face. She caressed him, her lips curling into a sheepish smile as she seemed to study his beardless visage. She went on to comb her fingers through his hair, examining the full length of it for her seeming approval. Her gaze dropped to his lips and her hand followed, her thumb tracing the line of his bottom one. He wasn't sure what was on her mind, but as her finger brushed his wet lip, only one thing was on his. He set their wine glass back on the counter, pinning her against it in the process, and went in for a kiss. Gently, but hungrily, he sucked at her plump lips like they were his sustenance. Her tongue met his within seconds, pulling an unexpected moan from both of them as they melted into one another. Rick's right hand snaked down her back until it reached her ass, giving it a soft squeeze as he pulled her into him. God, she felt perfect.

Michonne's tongue lashed against his, tasting the red wine on him, but feeling drunk from him. She loved the way he kissed, tenderly sucking at her lips while his tongue slowly pushed its way into her mouth. Their noses smashed together, inhaling one another, while their bodies were so close they were practically one. And when they pulled apart for air, her chest heaving against his, she gave him a little knowing smile. There didn't seem to be any question about what would happen next. "Welcome back," she said.

Rick grinned, his entire body feeling warm and tingly – from the wine, but again, mostly the kiss. "Should we eat first?" he asked. Because he had a feeling he would expend a lot of energy that night.

"Yes. You should," Michonne agreed. She was being cheeky, but she was also too anxious to actually keep anything down. She'd been looking forward to this night all day – all week, really – but now that it was here, she was nervous as hell. Still, she went and sat on the bed like she owned the place, and waited for Rick to catch up.

"Oh," he said with surprise once he finally did figure it out. He was also mad at himself for totally missing the double entendre. He moved to join her, noting the condom packets sitting on the nightstand. She hadn't been kidding when she said she would think about this. "So you're sure?" he asked for good measure. He needed to know that she didn't feel pressured in any way.

"Don't start this again," she smirked, recalling their first attempt. His need to make sure she was okay was part of why she realized she wasn't. And while that was something she should probably be thankful for, she wanted to enjoy this without overthinking it. "I'm sure that I trust you. And I wanna give it another try." She watched Rick acknowledge her reply with a nod, and she sat back on the bed so that she was squarely in the middle of it. "So get over here."

_Something tells me that after I do this, I won't feel the same_

Rick was happy to acquiesce, sauntering over to the bed with a mischievous gleam in his hungry blue eyes. He climbed on top of her, between her legs and into her arms, and he kissed her again. Harder, and more passionately this time, his lips forcing hers open and sucking all the air from her lungs. He wasted no time, but still, he took what he needed, giving attention to every part of her; his lips brushing across her chin before moving down her neck. He sucked at her skin like candy, giving it three little licks before taking a soft bite, making her moan his name. He liked hearing her moan his name. He paused briefly, to pull off his t-shirt, before he continued across her delectable collarbone; and then down her chest, pulling at the straps of her dress to leave her shoulders bare.

As he kissed and sucked at her décolletage, Michonne ran her fingers through his soft hair, trying to keep her thoughts on it, as opposed to everything else that wanted to consume her. The further his kisses moved south, the more her anxiousness grew, her heart racing as she felt him lifting her dress. She worried as if this were her first time – how would it feel? how would she taste to him? what if she did something embarrassing while he was down there? She thought she was ready, even making sure to shave for the occasion, but as he exposed her thighs, in what felt like slow motion, she realized she was trembling.

_It ain't drugs, it ain't lust, but it feels like it's numbing my pain_

Rick reached beneath her dress to pull off her panties, his hands feeling for the elastic waist, only to find it wasn't there. She wasn't wearing any. He smiled, feeling his dick twitch in his jeans as he continued to push up her dress. He kissed between her thighs, licking and biting at her dark brown skin as if it were actual chocolate, but noticed her quivering seemed to only intensify as he went higher. At the risk of pissing her off, he pulled back. "Michonne, maybe we should talk—"

"I'm fine," she promised, sitting up on her elbows to see his face. To look him in the eye and assure him. "Keep going."

"You don't seem fine."

_I've been hurt for so long I forgot how to love, is that strange?_

"I haven't had an orgasm in seven months," she revealed, thinking of the many times she faked it with Negan at the end of her pregnancy, just so he'd get off of her. "Not even from… self-pleasure. So I'm trying to catch up, and I'm nervous," she said. "But I'm ready." She pulled up her dress so that she was naked from the waist down and bit her bottom lip, nodding for him to go on. She was eager to find out just how good he was.

Rick swallowed visibly at the sight of all her pretty brown skin on display, licking his lips before pushing her legs apart. He felt a rumbling in his stomach as he went to work, starting with a kiss to her warm flesh. Her entire body twitched in response, giving him pause, but she'd assured him she was ready, so he persisted, giving her pink clit a long, wet lick. He smiled when she let out a quiet moan and her thighs widened for him, encouraging him to go deeper. But he continued to tease her with short, soft licks to her sensitive bud, then followed them with prolonged sucks that quickened her breath. He ran his tongue down her bare pussy and sucked at her perineum, making her clench and squeeze and grab his hair. And he smiled again because he knew he was just getting started.

"Rick," she hummed, her body feeling like it was on fire. Within minutes, he had her squirming and soaking wet and already on the brink of an orgasm. "Fuck," she growled.  _Fuck_. His tongue was inside her, dipping in and out of her while his wet fingers rubbed gently at her clit, working her nerves like he was getting paid for it. Like he'd known her forever and exactly what she needed. He felt so good she wanted to cry.

_Something tells me you know what I mean and you feel the same_

"You okay?" he asked from between her thighs. He had a pretty good idea that she was, but he wanted to check in.

"Yeah," she answered with a quick, breathless nod.

He could feel her body tense, so he eased up on her for a moment, moving his kisses down her thighs. He meticulously licked every inch of her skin, giving special attention to her scars and stretch marks, then moving back up again. He licked through the rippled muscles of her stomach, his tongue circling and kissing her navel before heading back down. His fingers gently penetrated her, his mouth doing the rest of the work, all of it making her hips lift from the bed. He made sure to lap up all of her juices, and still, she was soaking wet. His dick was begging to be let out and taste her too, but for now, his tongue was having too much fun. "You taste so good," he mumbled into her.

Michonne's own mouth was watering as she listened to the smacking sounds of him eating her like she was a three course meal. With him sucking on her clit, the hum of his words reverberating against her, she felt a rush of ecstasy in her core. A little explosion. She moaned loudly and unabashedly as she experienced her first orgasm in far too long. "Rick," she whispered, unsure whether she wanted him to stop or keep going, the pleasure so unbearable. But when he began to run his tongue sideways across her clit, as if he didn't even notice the gush of cum that accompanied her climax, she tried her best to go with it. Squeezing a fistful of his curls in her hand, her thighs shaking and periodically closing in on him, his smooth face feeling like butter against them, she relished in his tongue work. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and let him take her to heaven. " _Fuck_."

_There ain't no choir_  
_But I hear the angels sing  
_ _Holy as water, fallen from Heaven's feet_

He smiled at the mixture of pleasure and torture in her voice. "I told you," he said.

"Shut up," she hissed, squirming beneath him. Her other hand gripped the sheets as he pushed her legs so far back, they were damn near over her head, and she almost combusted at just the thought of him getting any deeper. "Rick," she groaned.

"Mmm," was his only response, a deep moan to tell her just how much he was enjoying this. He loved it, in fact – the way she tasted, the way she smelled, the way her body responded to him. He made out with her pussy lips, pushing his tongue between them as if she could return the kiss. He used his entire face to pleasure her, his nose working her clit while his fingers searched for her G-spot. He knew he'd found it when she began to whimper, and the grip she had on his hair left him worrying she might pull it out. It all had him hard as a rock. It turned him on to know that he could make her feel this good.

Michonne was literally shaking by then. Rick was so generous, not only with his lips, but with sharing his gratification of it all. The sounds he was making, leaving her feeling like she was the best meal he'd ever had. The way he gave attention to every single part of her, even licking between her cheeks to make sure he covered all her bases. She was pretty certain his generosity was going to kill her. "Rick," she whined, feeling his tongue circling her clit. She could feel her cum dripping down her skin, and then him immediately lapping it up. She could just imagine him, eyes closed, fully indulged in her pussy, making her clench her entire body with excitement. Another happy ending on its way. "Shit," she whispered. She whimpered. Her toes locked, her breathing labored, she erupted with another delicious orgasm, leaving her a puddle of delighted bliss.

_Oh baby, there ain't no altar, but I can't help but pray_

Rick continued to moan through her climax as he finished her off, licking up her cum while leaving her wet for the next round. Before he would allow her legs back down, he kissed and sucked at her left cheek, then the right, then made his way up her thigh, his lips leaving little damp spots along the way. All while Michonne tried to find some way to process what had just happened.

_Ooh, baby tell me this feeling I'm feeling is not in vain_

"What the fuck," she sighed to herself. She even managed a smile as she gazed at the ceiling in a daze, her hand still clutching the sheets with a death grip.

Rick rolled onto the bed beside her, also needing a moment to compose himself. He was about thirty seconds from coming, right along with her, and now that he'd had a taste of her, he wasn't sure what he could do to contain it. "It was good?" he asked.

She scoffed, knowing he knew it was. He had her literally whimpering for mercy. "It was good," she confirmed, turning her head to steal a glance of this perfect man. His face was flushed, and he was still licking his swollen lips, making her insides tingle.

"One of these days, you'll believe me when I tell you somethin'," he smirked, finally forcing himself to sit up. He looked over at her, still splayed across the bed with her dress around her waist, still exhausted, it seemed. He could feel himself throbbing in his jeans. "You need a break?"

She could only nod and watch helplessly as he left the room with that signature walk that drove her so crazy. God, he was sexy. And now that she knew he gave head like  _this_? His sexiness only magnified. She was mad at herself for not doing this sooner. She wanted to feel something other than pain, and the remedy was here all along. Rick and his magic tongue. She could tell this wasn't a chore for him; it wasn't a means to getting her wet so that he could fuck; not like some guys she'd been with. It was something he got enjoyment from, too. And another thing to like about him. Damn it.

' _Cause you, you've seen inside me  
_ _And you, you shame beside me_

Within a few minutes, Rick returned from the bathroom, amused to find Michonne in the exact same position he left her. It put a cocky smirk on his face as he strolled across the room to the bar. He poured himself some gin while Michonne watched, quietly wondering why he still had pants on. In fact, she wasn't sure why she was still wearing her dress and sat up from the bed, finally, to pull it off, leaving her naked.

"You want somethin'?" Rick asked, already pulling out a glass for her, ready to take her request.

Wordlessly, Michonne grabbed a condom from his nightstand and went to join him at the bar that she'd admired so much on her first visit. Every time she was there, she thought about how beautiful it was. And now, her only interest was in defiling it. She wrapped her arms around his waist, showing off the gold wrapper in her hand. She pressed her chest against his bare back, her forehead resting against his cool skin, and she whispered, "I want you."

_I ain't easy to love, I won't vow or promise I'll change_

Rick set down his glass and turned to face her, licking his lips at her flawless frame staring back at him. In one swift motion, he grabbed her by the hips and picked her up, sitting her on the cabinet for easy access. She yelped in surprise, but caught up rather quickly, pulling him in for a kiss as she reached for his belt, desperate to undo those jeans. Their tongues wrestled while he squeezed her tits, his thumbs teasing her stiffened nipples to make her moan. She could already feel his bulging erection as she got him down to his boxers. They were both so hungry for this.

_But something tells me you know what I've been through and you feel the same_

She lowered his underwear with her toes while he fumbled to open the condom wrapper, being careful not tear its contents. Her chest was heaving, her supple breasts teasing him, and he couldn't help but wrap his mouth around one, sucking at her hard nipple with hot, lingering licks until it went soft again; devouring her flesh while she massaged his cock.

"Rick," she purred. She wanted him inside her so badly, her pussy was pulsating. She could feel her juices wetting the bar's pristine surface.

He reluctantly released her breast to finish the job of unwrapping the condom and rolling it on as quickly as he could. The two of them locked eyes as he pulled Michonne's hips to the edge of the cabinet, the head of his dick pressed against her mouthwatering pussy. She grabbed his shoulders for leverage and nodded for him to go on. She was ready this time.

A delighted sigh fell from her lips as he pushed inside her, accompanied by a grunt from him, feeling her hot, wet walls surrounding him. He moved slowly at first. Gently. Allowing her to acclimate to the feel of him. Giving himself that same courtesy. She was tight and already so fucking wet, even a condom couldn't hide that fact.

"Shit," he whispered. He began to roll his hips, establishing a rhythm inside her. The bar began to shake, and the glassware along with it, but he couldn't have cared less. He went for her neck, sucking her skin and licking away the saltiness that came with it when she began to sweat. He enjoyed the bounce of her tits against his chest when he began to fuck her harder. He squeezed her ass, all thick and juicy in his hands. He wasn't sure how long he would last.

Michonne was holding onto his shoulders and neck for dear life, her short nails scratching his skin as her back beat against the wall behind them. He felt so good, his long cock filling her up, sliding past her walls and back out again. The fluidity of his stroke left absolutely nothing to be desired. His tongue had her mind a jumble. Her hair had come out of its ponytail, her thick locs falling into her face. The glasses clinking around them just amplified the heat of it all. "Fuck," she growled into his skin. She'd been been waiting to be dicked down like this all her life. "Rick," she whimpered. There it was again. She couldn't help but wonder,  _How does he make me do that?_  But she was truly at his mercy, trying to stay upright while he fucked her sideways. She could feel the next orgasm bubbling as his dick rubbed against her clit with every thrust.

"I'm gonna come," he breathed into her neck. He could feel his heart beating in his ears, his sight just a blur of her. He loved how sticky and sweaty they'd become over the course of their intercourse. Despite all Michonne's hints to the contrary, she knew what she was doing. The way she rolled her hips to meet his at the exact right spot. They had a chemistry that couldn't be concocted, he knew that the first time they met. But it made for fantastic sex. The kind of sex that came with sloppy kisses and unattractive grunts, little scratches and bites and breathless, nonsensical expletives as your eyes rolled to the back of your head – all before you even came.

_And there ain't not choir, but I hear the angels sing  
_ _Holy as water, fallen from Heaven's feet_

Rick was thankful when he felt Michonne's body go slack, and he could feel the warmth of her cum coating his cock, much in the same way it had his tongue just a little while ago. The chorus of his name on her lips only pushed him to the finish line faster. He slowed his grinding to a near halt as he released with a hard grunt, the smell of their sex filling the room. He allowed himself to rest, his forehead touching hers, while his hands continued to massage her backside affectionately. Their heavy breaths were the soundtrack to their orgasms.

"God," Michonne exhaled, rubbing at his back. She could already feel the raised welts in his skin that would undoubtedly leave marks the next day.

Rick smiled, leaving kisses along her clavicle. In the dim room, with the sunset having turned to night, her skin looked almost black and he loved it. "You saw Him too?" he joked.

She hit his lower back softly, admonishing him for the blasphemous joke. Though in the back of her mind, she wasn't entirely sure she hadn't. Because damn. "I'm glad you encouraged me to face this," she said seriously. "I can't believe I would've missed out on you."

He smiled a bit bashfully. Just when he was returning to his normal color, she made him blush again. He ran his thumb up the side of her torso and back down again as he nodded. "So we broke your dry spell," he asked.

She worked hard to hold on to her smile, but it burst past her lips anyway, knowing he knew the answer to that. "Yes. We did."

He gave her another short kiss before finally pulling out of her, the two of them separating for a quick cleanup before falling into bed together, spent, but in a haze of bliss all the same. "It's only 9:30," Rick announced when he noticed the clock across the room.

Michonne snorted. After all of that, she thought surely it was the middle of the night. "Guess that means we have time to do it again?"

"We have all the time in the world for that," he said. He rolled onto his side to face her, pushing one of her locs behind her ear to gaze at her face. That after-sex glow had her looking even more beautiful than usual, which he didn't think was possible. He wanted to tell her as much, but she dropped his gaze as if she knew what would come out of his mouth next. "What's wrong?" he asked, worried.

"Nothing," she shook her head, staring at the ceiling instead.

"Michonne..."

"I just… I don't want you to make this weird," she said softly. "I like you, Rick. I hope you know that," she added. "But this is… I mean, we still can't be a 'thing'."

He chuckled, nodding at the fact that her insecurity had reared its ugly head yet again. But instead of indulging her in her fantasy, he pulled her into his arms, ignoring the tangle of sheets between them, so that she was practically on top of him. "Despite your best efforts, we're already a thing," he whispered against her ear.

She rolled her eyes, perhaps at the fact that he was probably right – though in truth, maybe she hadn't tried that hard at all. She was into him. She couldn't remember ever being this into someone before. Not so quickly, at least. And as he wrapped his arms around her so tightly, she felt like her insides were being rearranged, and she gently ran her elegant fingers through his arm hair, she said a silent prayer. She wasn't religious, not anymore, but she hoped someone up there could hear her.  _Please, God, don't let me fall in love with this ma_ n.

_Oh baby, there ain't no altar, but I can't help but pray  
Oh, baby tell me this feeling I'm feeling is not in vain_

* * *

Lyrics: "Vain" - Kirby (Vain - Single)


	9. The Ways of a Woman in Love

_"I don't know if contractions are supposed to come this fast," I comment, not even realizing just how right I am about this. Not yet. They feel like they're back to back to back; and by the time we near the hospital, just a continuous, agonizing ache, compounded by lower back cramps. In the back of my mind, I can only think about how I never want to do this again. I'll regret thinking this soon._

_We reach the hospital in record time, finding the emergency unit to be fairly calm, luckily – though no one expects much of a random Tuesday night in March. Yet somehow, it becomes the night our worlds are turned upside down. Negan helps me out of the car, the two of us trudging as quickly as we can across the parking lot, and I feel some sort of pop, with a gush to follow. I think surely my water has broken and I squeeze my fiancé's hand with delight. But that exhilaration quickly turns to horror when we walk through the hospital doors and the fluorescent lighting allows us to see that the lower half of my peach dress is striped in red, and there's a trail of blood following me._

_Tears immediately stream down my cheeks when I see it. I can no longer feel the pain, because my mind goes blank. I think I can hear myself screaming, "Oh, my god! Oh, my god!" But there's a high likelihood it's just in my head._

_Negan runs to the front desk, desperate to get someone's attention, and before I know it, there are two nurses coming toward me with a wheelchair. They're telling me to take a seat so they can take me to be examined, but Negan is asking about the doctor, and everything is too frenetic for me to make sense of any of it._

" _We need_ our  _doctor," he says loudly, accompanying me and my rolling chair down the corridor. His hand finds mine and I grip it tightly as he continues to insist, "Jacqui Prescott. Don't send in some fucking hack we've never even met before."_

" _We're calling in Dr. Prescott now," the older nurse assures him, though it's clear in her tone she's bothered by the way he's speaking._

_We seem to be moving quickly and I feel dizzy. "I'm allergic to succinylcholine," I say out loud – I think. I say it again, just in case I didn't. This time, I hear myself and the nurse tells me everything is going to be fine, but I don't believe her. "Will I need to have to have a C-section?" I ask. Because of my issues with general anesthesia – the succinylcholine, in particular – I'd been working with my doctor to avoid a cesarean unless absolutely necessary. I don't want any drugs at all, if I can help it. But the way things are going…_

" _We're gonna see," the nurse says._

" _How long until you know?" Negan demands._

" _Once we examine her, do a quick ultrasound, we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with and your doctor can make a decision."_

" _Fuck," he yells._

_"Sir, I know this is difficult," the other nurse interjects, "but if you could stay calm, even if only for your wife's sake, it'll be a tremendous help."_

_I'm glad she says it, because I can't. I'm scared out of my mind, and he's only making me more anxious. My tears are falling so quickly, I can barely see, and my mouth feels dry. The sharp shooting in my stomach and back has been replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread and I want to throw up. I do throw up. What a fucking nightmare._

Michonne awoke with a soft gasp and the realization that she was dreaming, her eyes opening to a dark, quiet room, unsure exactly where she was. There was a buzzing sound that'd lured her out of her sleep, but it took a moment to recognize that it was her phone. And she was at Rick's. Still.

Sniffling and disoriented, she grabbed her device from his nightstand, squinting to see Rick's name, and quickly answered before she could miss the call. "Hello?" she answered, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey..." Rick replied skeptically, her groggy voice giving him pause.

"Hi," she said, her sentence ending with something crossed between a sigh and a moan.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she sniffled again. "I was asleep."

"Oh," he frowned to himself, glancing at his watch. "I'm sorry. It's only ten o'clock here, I thought you'd still be up."

"No, I fell asleep after you left," she said with a little giggle, realizing it for herself. "Literally haven't moved from the spot you left me in."

Rick couldn't help but smile at the thought of her still naked in his bed. Especially when it was damn near impossible to leave her like that in the first place. But more than that, he just enjoyed knowing that he'd tired her out. It gave him a strange sense of pride. "Really?" he asked.

"Really," she grinned. She rolled over with her phone so that she was tucked against his pillow. She loved that it smelled like him – a mixture of soap and wood and spice. "How was your drive home?" she asked.

"Long," he sighed. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."  _Us_ , he thought.

Michonne smiled again. It was a heavy statement to make, but much to her surprise, she wasn't as scared of it as she probably should have been. Perhaps because the truth was, in her conscious moments, she hadn't stopped thinking about him either. They spent the entire weekend fucking like porn stars, with an empty box of condoms to show for it, and she had no regrets. "It was a good weekend," she commented. She felt her nipple stiffen as she thought about it, and her hand instinctively touched it, squeezing it, wishing it were Rick's mouth.

"It was a  _great_  weekend," he corrected her.

"Mm," she agreed, staring up at the dark ceiling – much in the same way she did when they fucked. "I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to go an entire week without you."

He was pleasantly surprised by the admission that she would miss him. Or the sex, at least, but he'd take it. "You're not completely 'without' me," he said. "We can enjoy each other in other ways."

"No offense, but talking to you is nowhere near as fun as fucking you."

He laughed, his cheeks practically going up to his eyes in his amusement. "All right," he nodded into his phone. "I'm gonna choose to take that as a compliment."

"Good," she grinned. "Because it is."

"But my point was… talkin' can be fun too," he said.

The suggestiveness in his tone left her peering into the darkness, wondering if he meant what she thought he meant. She smiled, feeling her cheeks tingling. "As in phone sex?"

He laughed again, at the way she sounded scandalized by the notion. "I mean, unless you're not up for it."

"I…" She paused, unsure how to respond. She'd never done such a thing, and only even considered it once, back in college when she and her boyfriend were separated for the summer. But she was too shy at the time to initiate it. Now, it just sounded silly. "I guess I am?" she chuckled. "Do people still do that in 2017?"

"I think the youngins are probably sexting and FaceTiming these days," he joked.

"Now there's an idea," she said, mostly in jest, knowing he didn't have the technology for it. "If you didn't have that flip phone, you could see me right now."

"Well if that's what we're doin', I'll go find an iPhone tonight."

She was grinning into the phone at that point, thankful the reception at his house was better than it was at hers. She could talk to him forever. "I bet you would," she said. She was rubbing her leg along the soft sheets, pretending – or more accurately, wishing – they were Rick. "Does your phone even get pictures?" she asked.

"That's very funny," he chuckled quietly.

"I'm not kidding. I haven't used a flip phone since grad school, so I'm truly unaware of their capabilities."

"Yes, Michonne, it gets pictures," he answered, mocking her sarcasm. "It even has Bluetooth and WiFi and all that stuff you have."

"But with a screen half my size," she teased. She rolled over once more to turn on the lamp, filling the room with warm light. "I don't even know if you can fully appreciate this," she added, her sentence trailing off.

Rick shifted in his own bed, hearing the shuffling on her end of the call, and he could take a wild guess as to what she was doing. But he didn't want to get too excited. "Appreciate what?" he asked evenly.

"Gimme a second," she said. She was already flicking through her apps as she spoke, putting him on speakerphone before opening her camera and going into selfie mode. Holding the phone away from her face, she snapped a picture of herself from the neck down, with one thigh crossed over the other, and sent the finished product to Rick. "Not sure if your phone lets you get texts while you're in a call…"

"You're such an asshole," he grinned. There was a buzz in his ear and he put her on speakerphone as well, quickly going to his messages to see what she'd sent. He bit at his bottom lip when he was met with the image of her naked body, her perfect tits the focal point, her nipples looking like chocolate kisses. "Jesus," he whispered to himself. He was sorely tempted to make that three-hour drive back to Gatlinburg just to see them in person again.

Michonne smiled again as she contorted herself in order to snap another picture that she knew he'd like. "You okay?"

"Yep," he said. Though it was a lie, as he could feel his boxers getting snug even as he spoke. Then came another text – this time, a side view of her ass, and he bit his lip so hard, it was a miracle he didn't draw blood.

"One more," she said, striking her final pose. She was enjoying the fact that she'd left him speechless – especially after the weekend they'd had, where she could barely breathe by the time he was done with her. For the last picture, she uncrossed her legs to give him a soft-core snap of her pussy, but debated with herself for a few seconds, questioning whether to actually send it. She was trusting him with a lot here, and hadn't even thought much about it beforehand. Recklessness had never been in her nature – even when she left for Tennessee, it was with a plan in place. So to have this man that disarmed her so easily, knocking down her walls – in more ways than one – was baffling. It was exciting. It was terrifying. And it was why she pressed Send.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he exhaled, staring at her pictures as if they were the real thing. Wishing they were, and lamenting the distance between them. He was having flashbacks of the previous two days, imagining himself inside her.

"Just trying to help you get through the week," she smirked.

He smiled at the mirth in her voice. "And what's gonna get you through the week?" he wondered. Not that he was averse to sending as many dick pics as she wanted, but he was well aware they didn't have the same cachet as the female body, and he certainly wasn't going to do so unsolicited.

"My imagination," she said with a small sigh to follow. Though in truth, she wouldn't have to do much since Rick had given her a lot to work with – all she had to do was recall the feeling of his tongue on her skin and she was instantly wet.

"And... what are you imagining?"

Michonne opened her mouth to respond, but stopped, smiling shyly to herself instead. She was actually nervous to say the words out loud. Even in person, she was hesitant to talk dirty. She tried to with Negan, but always kept it to a minimum, for fear of sounding stupid. Something about expressing her desires out loud made her feel much too vulnerable. But again, she trusted Rick. So she took a breath and licked her lips before finally answering, her voice soft, "I'm imagining your tongue inside me."

Rick's mouth watered at the thought, practically tasting her in his mouth. He could see himself devouring her, licking through her brown and pink flesh, leaving every inch of her glistening. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"It feels good," she whispered as her hand slipped between her thighs to simulate him and his glorious tongue. She was even wetter than she thought, her fingers immediately slick when she began to explore herself. "It feels so good," she quietly moaned.

He smiled to himself, the pitch of her voice telling him she was touching herself. He swallowed hard at the image he'd conjured of her writhing in his bed, fingering herself as she thought about him. It was too much to take, and before he could stop himself, he was pulling his dick from his boxers, beginning to stroke it slowly. "What now?" he questioned. He reclined against his headboard and closed his eyes, ready for her voice to take him on a journey.

"You're licking my clit," she said. She moaned again as her wet fingers moved up her slit, gently massaging the sensitive bud. As her imagination ran wild, thinking of the way he would alternate between sucking it and flicking his tongue against it, the motion of her fingers quickened while her breaths slowed. "Rick," she moaned as if he were there.

"I'm with you," he whispered, imagining himself drowning in her pussy. It didn't take much to get there, as the taste of her cum was still on his tongue from earlier in the day, and her sweet smell lingered in his stubble. It was like deja vu, licking and sucking her flesh like it was the last meal he'd ever have. His dick was stiff in his hands, pre-cum oozing from the tip as he milked himself, letting out soft grunts while his mind wandered between Michonne's thighs. "Shit," he whispered.

"I want you inside me," she said. She could hear him masturbating too, and it only made her hungrier for him. She imagined him sucking on her tits as his cock slid in and out of her, and her fingers were working overtime to keep up with the fantasy.

"I do, too," he said, reveling in her moans filling his bedroom. But between the pictures she sent and the ones in his head, it didn't take long for him to go over the edge, and he came with a heavy grunt. "Fuck," he breathed as it washed over him. Forgetting that Michonne wasn't there to catch his seed, he was left with a bit of a mess. But to connect with her in this way, it was worth it.

Michonne was still going, even when she could tell he was done. Though it wasn't by way of her mouth, she still liked the thought of him getting off to her. She bit her lip to hide her smug smile, then quickly returned her focus to her own orgasm. She thought of how they fucked that morning – with her legs over his shoulders, and his stroke went so deep, she thought he might break something. God, he was good. And thinking of it now, her entire body began to tingle with the unbridled delight of a climax. "Oh, god," she hummed. As her body went numb with pleasure, her fluids trickling down her body and seeping into Rick's sheets, her face went warm with the realization of what she'd just done. It had been far too long since she'd pleasured herself, but the fact that she'd done it on the phone with someone else was an entirely different – and sobering – story.

"You okay?" Rick asked. He'd been thoroughly enjoying listening to her, and then she went silent, which worried him.

She let out a small, embarrassed chuckle, covering her face as if he were in front of her. "Yeah."

He grinned. He loved her laugh. He loved her voice. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Was it good?" he asked. It sounded like it was, but knowing how long it had been since she touched herself, he was curious how she felt about it all.

"It was," she said. She swaddled herself in the sheets, and turned off the lamp, readying herself to talk to him for the rest of the night if he wanted to. "Good enough," she appended once she thought better of it.

"Good enough?" he laughed.

"I mean… nothing compares to you," she said, thinking herself clever for referencing his favorite musician in her answer – also because it was true. "But it'll do until you're back."

* * *

It was a quiet Thursday morning that saw Michonne sitting at her desk, clacking away at her keyboard, an email response to one of her students who'd missed class that day. It was the day before a holiday weekend, so she shouldn't have expected much, but she'd planned every class meticulously, so students who missed class missed a lot. She was in the midst of telling said student exactly that when there was a knock at the door. She had to remind herself not to be overly enthusiastic, but the nerd inside of her was bursting – she'd just given the class a little reminder about her office hours, and an hour later, someone was actually coming to see her.

"Come in," she chirped.

"Dr. Godard?" It was one of her quieter students, Chelsey Hudson, clutching her iPad against her chest as she walked in.

"Hey," Michonne grinned at her warmly. Chelsey was one of few young women in her class, and the only black person on top of it, so she always made a conscious effort to be friendly. "How are you?" she asked, pushing her laptop to the side.

"I'm good," she nodded, taking the open seat on the other side of her professor's desk. "I've really been enjoying your class," she added with a small smile. "I know everybody is just ready to get to the robots, but I'm a math major, so when you start talking about algorithms... and today, with the classification trees... It's like you came here just for me."

The two of them laughed, but in that moment, Michonne felt like it could be true. Chelsey reminded her of her 20-year-old self – smart, but unconfident. She knew a lot, but wasn't comfortable enough to show most people; especially in a sea of white peers. And she, too, got so excited about math. "I'm really glad to hear that," she said. "Hopefully you can't tell, but this is my first time teaching."

"Oh," she replied with surprise in her tone. "No, I didn't know that."

"Good," Michonne nodded, feeling her stomach settle. In the top corner of her desk, she noticed her phone light up with a text from Rick, but it was the time that made her take notice. It was almost noon, meaning her office-mate would be arriving momentarily. "So is there something you wanted to discuss? About the class?" she asked hopefully.

"Not… really about the class," Chelsey said, lowering her voice. "Maybe this is completely inappropriate, and I know you don't really know me that well, but your bio said you used to work at McGraw-Hill, and I was wondering if you could write me a recommendation for an internship for the summer?"

"Oh," Michonne replied. She was taken aback, but in a good way.

"I know it's a bit early, but Riley and Bradley were talking about coming to you too, and I thought I should get my name in sooner than later."

Michonne was nodding, ready to answer, but Chelsey cut her off again.

"The internship would be with a software architect, and it's in Chicago, but I already have someone to stay with, so that won't be an issue. Unless I break up with my boyfriend by then," she added as an aside. "I know you can't write a great recommendation after only a month, but I'm hoping if I can prove myself in your class, you'd be willing—."

"Chelsey," Michonne finally stopped her, laughing as she did. "I'd be glad to help you."

Chelsey let out a small gasp. "Really?"

"Of course," she said. "I was only there for a little while between undergrad and grad school, so I don't know how much reach I have, but I can certainly write you a rec. But we can also sit down and look at other options in your field… maybe fellowships, that pay, so you don't have to rely on a boy," she suggested with a joking smile. "We can figure it out."

"Okay," she nodded, letting out a visible sigh of relief. "I was concerned about being too forward, but I really didn't want to miss out when the opportunity was literally in my face two days a week."

Michonne smiled, though her mind immediately shifted to Rick. She'd been doing that a lot lately – thinking of him in random moments. But she chalked it up to the good sex taking her brain hostage and returned to her student. "You don't have to explain being diligent," she shook her head. "I'm quite happy to help."

Just then, right on schedule, the door swung open, and her office-mate, Dr. Monroe, came strolling into the room, lunch in hand. "Oh, sorry," he greeted the two women when he realized he was interrupting.

"I was just leaving," Chelsey said, popping up from her seat. "Thank you so much, Dr. Godard."

"Of course," Michonne nodded again, grinning as she watched the young woman slip past Dr. Monroe and scurry out of the door. "Hey," she greeted her colleague.

"Aren't you popular this week," he commented with a smirk. He plopped down a small pizza box from Mellow Mushroom and pulled up the open chair to the desk they shared.

Michonne looked, perplexed, and repulsed by the smell of his food, but she was more interested in his remark than whatever he was doing. "I'm popular this week? What does that mean?" she asked, her smile relaying her confusion.

"A couple of your students stopped by Tuesday after you left. And yesterday." He explained it casually, as if it were something she would've already known.

She smiled at the thought of more of her students actively seeking her out. She felt like a real professor.

"You want some of this?" he asked, gesturing to the pizza, topped with buffalo chicken, onions, bacon, and blue cheese.

"Oh, I was - I was just about to get out of your way," Michonne stuttered, thrown by the question. Or more accurately, she was thrown by him. Spencer Monroe was so attractive that it sometimes flustered her. Ridiculously tall, with dark hair and brown eyes, he looked like a fucking Abercrombie model.

She typically tried to be out of there by the time he came in, because  _he_  was the popular one – if there wasn't a line of students outside the door, waiting to speak with him, other professors, male and female, would hang around the office like groupies. It annoyed her to no end. Especially when she was still teaching herself how to be sociable again. She was trying to ease into it, and every Tuesday and Thursday at noon, she ran the risk of being thrown into the deep end.

"No rush. I'm on lunch," Spencer said with a chuckle. "Obviously."

"Well I did wanna finish this email," she replied with a timid smile.

He nodded and continued with his pizza. "I noticed you don't hang around here very long," he commented with his mouth full. "What's that about?"

She glanced at him, surprised he'd paid that much attention to her. "Well I just have the one class, so…"

"I only have two," he shrugged. "But you don't have to run off as soon as I come in. I hope it's not because you're uncomfortable here."

Michonne stopped typing, realizing he was looking for a conversation. "Well, I am the new girl in town," she said. "That's never really comfortable."

"You're from Atlanta, right?"

She had to resist the urge to let out a big, ugly sigh, and instead, offered a terse smile. "I am."

"Yeah, I applied for a position at CDC when I graduated," he recalled, shaking his head. "I'd just gotten my MPH from Ohio State, and I was like, yeah, I could totally be a deputy director."

Michonne laughed. "Did they even call you?"

"Nope," he chuckled back. "Don't even think I got one of those, 'Thank you for your application' emails."

"Yeah, you usually have to start low on the GS scale unless you know someone," she nodded. There was an ease in her tone once she realized he'd asked her about Atlanta because of where she worked, not because of her race. She hadn't been asked that question in almost a week now, and would've hated to break her streak.

He nodded, having gathered that by then. "Let me ask you something. I've heard through the grapevine that you know all about compartmental modeling."

"It's one of my many areas of expertise," she grinned proudly. "Yes." She was also curious what grapevine she was being talked about on...

"You think anyone around there would be interested in using it to research the cycles of infectious diseases?"

Her face practically lit up with interest, even though it was something she'd already done. " _I_  would," she said. "I wrote a paper a couple of years ago, specifically about the ethical limitations of using compartmental modeling to research AIDS."

"Shit, really?" he grinned back. "Could you send it to me?"

"Oh. Yeah." She looked at her computer as if it would appear if she stared at it too long. "Yeah, I should be able to find it."

Pleased with himself and the fact that he'd obviously come to the exact right person, he sat back in his seat with a smile. "That's so cool."

Michonne smiled again too, his excitement infectious. "My findings were really interesting," she nodded. "...Until I had to translate it to French. Then I hated everything about it."

"Oh, Jesus. English is really the worst language to translate something from, isn't it?"

"The  _worst_ ," she laughed in agreement. She remembered having to ask her dad to proofread it, because phrases got so twisted in translation.

They went quiet for a few beats while Spencer ate more of his pizza and Michonne continued to click away at her computer, but she had these thoughts swirling in her head about how she could see herself staying in Tennessee for the long term. She certainly liked her home life, and if her job was going to put her around like-minded colleagues and students like Chelsey and Spencer, she wanted to stay there, too. For now, for the foreseeable future, it really seemed like the best place for her.

"So I'm gonna be writing a proposal for this research," Spencer spoke, interrupting her thoughts, "and I'm gonna try to get it to Ed by the end of spring semester. But I'd really love it if you'd join me on this."

"Oh." She was surprised and excited at the same time, but there was an overwhelming hesitance to put her name on something that would be going back to her old job.

"I mean, you know the ins and outs of CDC, and this is your field of expertise, so I'd be an idiot not to ask you."

"No, I'd be glad to help," she said. "I just - I don't know where I'll be next semester." She had to think fast to come up with an excuse, but technically, it was also true.

"You won't be here?"

"I don't know yet," she chuckled. "I wasn't sure I'd still be here in January, so I only signed on for one semester," she added, knowing how strange that must've sounded.

"Oh." He looked disappointed. "Well... if you're going back to Atlanta, that's probably even better."

"No, I'm not," she answered quickly. Too quickly. He gave her an odd look, and she knew she had to clean it up. "I mean, wherever I am, we can always work on it remotely."

"That's true," he nodded. "Technology," he declared boisterously as he snapped his fingers.

"Technology," she chuckled back. She was practically beaming at the idea of having another project to work on. Something new. "So I'll send you that paper as soon as I find it," she said. "I think it's on my government laptop at home."

"No worries," he shook his head. "I'm a patient man."

Michonne's breath almost caught in her throat when he smiled at her. She wasn't one to react to any old white guy with a defined jawline – even if her track record seemed to say differently – but Dr. Monroe was  _really_  attractive. "Much appreciated," she smiled back.

"In the meantime, maybe we can go out for a drink," he offered casually. "If you're around tonight. Or this weekend…"

"Oh," she replied, surprised again, though not quite in that same eager way as before. She was free as a bird that evening, and had no real reason not to accept an evening with a smart, attractive guy she already knew she had something in common with. Yet she wouldn't even entertain the thought, and not because they worked together. "I, um - that's… I - I have a boyfriend," she managed to say through her stutters, then instantly wished she could take it back. It felt so strange for those words to come out of her mouth and not be talking about Negan. And the idea of having a boyfriend only a month and a half after walking out on her fiancé was ridiculous in itself. "I have someone," she corrected herself.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he said with a chuckle. "I just assumed, since you were new in town—"

"No, it's fine," she replied. She smiled politely as he nodded, but the air in the room was suddenly awkward. This was precisely why she would try to be gone before he arrived. She quickly closed her laptop, vowing to finish her email later, and gathered her things. "I'm gonna get out of your way."

"Still no rush," he grinned, seeing her scrambling.

"I'm hungry," she said; adding, before he could offer her food again, "And just looking at your pizza honestly made my stomach churn."

He laughed, enjoying her candor despite the uncomfortable moment. "All right," he conceded, "well I'll see you Tuesday then?"

"You probably will," she said. "Enjoy your holiday, Dr. Monroe."

"You too, Dr. Godard."

On her way out of the door, she smiled to herself. Not because of Spencer, necessarily, but the fact that she'd turned him down so easily. Anyone watching that exchange would've probably thought her insane. Guys like that didn't grow on trees, and here he was, practically dropped in her lap. If she didn't know better, she would think Rick had put a spell on her. She hadn't even seen him in nearly a week, and she was turning down dates for him? But deep down, she knew the simplest explanation was probably the correct one – she just really liked him.

* * *

"Ugh," Sasha sneered at the taste of her water as she sat her glass back on the table, sticking out her tongue for added effect. "That tastes terrible," she declared.

"It's only terrible because you've had solely alcohol for the past two days and nothing tastes right," Glenn replied. He was sipping on plain orange juice and experiencing the same issue. "Are you not hung over? I'm hella hung over."

"That's because you're old," she grinned teasingly.

"We're the same age."

"I'm young at heart," she countered. Though in truth, her head was pounding and the reason she was drinking water was because she could hardly keep anything else down. "Remind me not to drink anything else today." Glenn didn't even bother replying to that, so she went on to ask, "What are you getting?"

"I dunno," he shook his head, staring at his menu from behind his Ray-Bans. Everything sounded like it would only make him feel worse. "You think they'll just let us eat bread?"

Sasha chuckled as she checked her watch, seeing that their departure time was quickly approaching. "Should I call Rosita?"

"She knows what time the bus leaves, right?"

"Supposedly," she said. As she opted to text her girlfriend instead, a BMW passed, loudly playing the inescapable song of the summer, "Bodak Yellow", and she scoffed again. "If I have to hear that song one more time this weekend…"

"We're about to be on a boat full of gay and/or black people," Glenn said, as if she didn't know. "You're gonna hear that song all afternoon."

"That's fucked up," she grinned at his joke. Considering he was neither gay or black, she probably should've taken offense, but she knew him well enough not to. "Shit, it's Michonne's birthday," she realized, noticing the date on her phone for the first time all day. "Did you text her?"

"First thing this morning," he nodded, setting down his menu. "Though I don't think she replied yet..." He glanced at his own iPhone, seeing that he actually had gotten a response since he last checked – a pair of red hearts. "Nope, just kidding," he submitted, showing his friend the message.

"That's surprising," Sasha said, typing out her own short but sweet well wishes to her bestie. Their text exchanges tended to be brief, though they had spoken on the phone and via FaceTime a few times over the past couple of weeks. Michonne used to be a great texter, but lately, it was like she thought she could be tracked down if she sent too many.

"You said she's doing better," he recalled. "Maybe she'll be coming back soon."

Sasha smirked. After what she'd heard about this Rick guy, she didn't expect to see her friend ever again. "Doubt it," she said. She casually threw her phone to the table, awaiting an answer from her or Rosita, and traded it for her menu. She surveyed the crowded restaurant, making sure her girlfriend wasn't already there. From the patio, she had a perfect view inside, and it didn't take much for her to notice her best friend's ex, seated at a table near the bar. "Shit," she whispered.

"What's wrong," Glenn looked up from his phone, worried. "You're not gonna throw up, are you?"

"Don't turn your head," she instructed him, then quickly reconsidered. "Just… slowly turn your head," she said. "Right across from the bar."

He did as told and immediately spotted Negan sitting at a table by himself. He was sipping on a beer, a sad, uneaten salad sitting in front of him. "Poor bastard," he remarked, turning back around. "Why is he here?"

Sasha shrugged. Not only was it Black Gay Pride weekend, but DragonCon was also underway, and everyone in Atlanta knew to steer clear of downtown, midtown, and the surrounding areas unless participating in said events. "Maybe he thought Michonne might be here?"

"He looks pitiful."

"Should we say something?" Sasha grimaced at the thought of trying to talk to him again after he blew her off the last time. But his mother did just have a stroke, and she'd never offered her condolences. "We should say something."

"I'm not sure that we should," Glenn protested before she could rise from her seat.

"Why?"

"Because it's awkward," he whispered as if Negan might hear them. "He probably doesn't even wanna see us. We'll just remind him that his fiancée left him."

She stopped to consider that he probably didn't want to be bothered, and certainly not by Michonne's friends. But it was so difficult to see him sitting there by himself, looking all lonely. "I'm gonna go," she said. "Get me a mimosa."

"I thought you weren't drinking anymore."

"You knew I was lying when I said it," she grinned, fixing her shirt over her bikini top as she stood up. "Do I look hung over?"

Glenn gazed up at her, shaking his head. "Pull up your sunglasses?" She did, allowing him to see her reddened eyes and he shook his head again. "Yeah, no, you should keep those on."

Laughing at her friend, she headed inside, maneuvering through the busy room to find Negan's table. She waved at him as she approached, hoping he would be receptive. He was good for making a scene, and the last thing she wanted was to be his scene partner. "Fancy meeting you here," she greeted him.

"Hey, Sasha," he replied flatly. He set down his fork and sat back in his chair, waiting for whatever she had to say.

"How are you?" She stood at the chair opposite him, nervously gripping the back of it as she waited for an answer. "I mean, I heard about your mom," she appended before he could speak. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"So nice of you to walk all the way over here to ask that when you've had my number for years now and could've just called."

Sasha smiled politely, as she was unsure whether to engage in their typical biting banter, despite the atypical situation, or just be nice. "Are you forgetting how our last conversation went?" She decided to split the difference.

"I remember you trying to kid around with me after the worst breakup of my life, and me not wanting to play along."

She nodded. "If that's how you remember it, then we can leave it there," she said. "But it's why I didn't know whether to say anything after I heard about your mom."

"And what changed your mind today?"

"I saw you here… inexplicably," she added, "and I hoped, with a few weeks having passed, it might be safe. But if I'm wrong, I'm wrong."

Negan stared at her, debating with himself whether to take the olive branch. Especially when all he could think of when he looked at her was Michonne. He and Sasha had been amiable over the years, and could even hang out without Michonne – for a little while. When she would wait for Michonne at the house, or that one time they ended up on the same flight to New York. They were friendly, but they weren't  _friends_. "I'm fine," he said, though he doubted the words sounded believable as they came out of his mouth. "I'll be fine."

Sasha's smile turned sympathetic then, because she saw in his eyes what had been in Michonne's for so many months now – pain. Not to say he wasn't devastated by Anthony, but he'd gotten so busy taking care of Michonne, this was probably the first time he had a chance to process it all. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Don't tell Michonne you saw me?" he smirked.

"I can do that," she said. "Though it does beg the question of why… you're here?"

He shrugged, looking around the place. The Georgian Terrace was one of Michonne's many favorite spots in the city. "I needed to get out of the house," he said. "Michonne and I would stay here sometimes when we wanted to do something different. She'd call 'em 'staycations'." He smiled to himself. "Felt right to come here on her birthday, I guess."

Sasha nodded. The answer was more pathetic than she thought. "I won't tell her," she promised. "But is there anything I can do for  _you_?"

"Not unless you can send her home."

"She won't even let me come visit, so… doubtful."

Negan chuckled, surprised, but... also relieved to hear that he wasn't the only one she'd shut out. "Well… shit."

"You thought you were alone, huh," she asked, observing his expression.

"At least she's talking to you, though."

"She'd probably be talking to you too if you hadn't called her a cunt," she shot back, her eyebrows raising to highlight her point. "And didn't you tell her to leave you alone?"

"So she tries once and never again because I was mad? Seems like you're ignoring the part where she fucking left in the first place."

"She was broken," Sasha said in her friend's defense.

"Yeah, well, so was I," he shot back. He offered a sarcastic smile to go with it, and he hoped it deflected from the fact that he so obviously still was.

"I know," she whispered with a nod, still awkwardly gripping the chair back.

Negan shook his head with a sigh to follow. "She was the only thing holding me together for so many years," he said. "Even when she was just… drowning in grief, I kept it together for her because I had to. And then she left, and I just…"

Sasha didn't speak, but stood there, gazing at him, waiting for him to finish his thought.

"I lost my baby, my fiancée, damn near lost my mother, all in the span of half a year," he said. "It's a miracle I'm even sitting here."

She nodded. She knew all of this, even if she never took the time to consider it that way. And he was right – it was a lot. It was too much for one person. In fact, he probably should've been doing a lot more than sitting in a hotel restaurant enjoying brunch alone. "I'm sorry," she said, lacking anything more eloquent.

Negan shrugged again. At that point, what could he do but keep going? "It's not your fault," he said.

"No," she agreed. She spoke so softly, she could barely be heard over the buzz of the restaurant. "But it's not yours either."

* * *

"I don't think I can move," Michonne declared to the empty room.

Rick chuckled as he poked his head out of the bathroom upon hearing her voice; the sight of her laying spread eagle across her wrinkled sheets amusing him more than it should have. He knew she'd said something, but with her face buried in her pillow, it was an indecipherable mumble. "Are you all right?"

She let out a soft moan as she tried to turn her head in his direction, but she was too exhausted. Her backside was still tingling, sweat still wet on her forehead, and she could feel her own cum, sticky between her thighs. "No," she sighed. She forced herself to move, only slightly, when she realized she'd left him no space to return to bed. "What are you doing to me, Rick?"

"You're the one that said you wanted to go for another round."

Even if she couldn't see his face, she could hear the amusement in his voice, and it made her smile through her fatigue. "...Maybe I did," she granted. "But you have to go easier the second time, not harder."

"Oh, well I wasn't made aware of that rule," he said, grinning as he headed back into the bathroom. "Next time, I'll know," he called back.

"What are you doing," she whined. She liked their post-coitus cuddles, even when the room felt like an inferno after they were done.

"I'm almost done," he promised.

"Hurry up."

Once he finished brushing his teeth, he returned to the threshold of the room to see her in the same position, and he had to laugh at the fact that she was rushing him. "Do you have a flask over there you're drinkin' from?" he joked.

"No," she giggled hoarsely. Granted, she was drifting in and out of consciousness, and probably looked like she was inebriated, but the only thing she'd had to drink was him. "I think you fucked me into delirium."

"Jesus," he laughed, her choice of words taking him by surprise. "Should I bring you some water while I'm up? A cold towel, perhaps?"

"No," she decided, finally able to turn her head toward him. "But you can fix the sheets."

He smiled, enjoying how lazy she got after sex. It wasn't a word he'd use to describe her on any other day of the week, but after she came, all bets were off. "You're lucky I like you," he said, sauntering toward her to readjust the fitted sheets that had come off the mattress throughout their activities. He checked all four corners before heading back to the bathroom to finally finish his routine. He noticed his neck and chest were still flushed, so he splashed himself with some cold water. "Hey, what time do you leave for class in the morning?" he asked.

"Shit, tomorrow is Tuesday, huh?" She still wasn't used to this new weekend schedule with him, and now Labor Day had come along to throw her for a loop.

"Yep."

"I need to leave around seven then."

"I do, too," he said through his flossing. "Matter of fact, I should drive in with you so I can get a load of this  _Dr. Monroe_."

Michonne smirked at the thought of Rick coming to her job just to stake his claim. That would be a sight. "Yes, that's precisely what you should do," she said, her tone dripping in sarcasm.

"I just wanna see what I'm up against," he joked. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he surveyed the room for a clock, though it was difficult not to be distracted by the sight of Michonne's naked ass, slightly perched in the air, as she'd changed positions yet again. He could feel himself twitching as he imagined being up against her again. "Do you not have an alarm clock?" he asked, shaking the thoughts away.

"No, because I use my phone like a normal person," she said. She rolled over so that she could see what would surely be his peeved expression, grinning when she got exactly what she was looking for. "I think it's downstairs."

"Of course it is," he chuckled, already making his way to the steps. Once he got down there, he went ahead and closed up shop for the night, as it was something they'd forgotten to do once they were caught up in the moment. Of course, it was unlikely anyone would break in up in their neck of the woods. Still, he shut the windows, checked the doors, and turned out most of the lights before grabbing Michonne's phone and charger from the corner of the kitchen counter.

As the phone illuminated from being unplugged, it was impossible for Rick not to notice the lone message sitting on her home screen, plain as day:  _In spite of everything, I couldn't let this day pass without saying happy birthday to you._  It was from 'Negan', yet again, and it made Rick's stomach drop. His jaw clenched. Because it bothered him for several reasons, and he needed to address it, knowing it was an invasion of her privacy – even if inadvertent – while also knowing he wouldn't be able to let it go.

Back upstairs, Michonne had finally regained her some of her faculties and moved to her side of the bed as she waited for Rick to return; happy when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She watched as he padded around her bedroom in the nude, his slim frame making her smile; his adorably flat ass making her giggle. It wasn't lost on her that less than two months ago, she would've been utterly uncomfortable with this entire scene. Not just the sex, but the mere act of being naked with someone else, allowing them to be the same with her. Two months ago, she would disappear from the bedroom when she knew Negan was taking a shower, so as to avoid the mere possibility. She wore pajamas to bed and made sure he did, too. She shied away from everything related to the body; now, she welcomed it. She liked rediscovering herself, sexual and otherwise. Especially with Rick as a companion. He made it exciting and safe, all at once. She actually looked forward to lying in bed with him, skin to skin.

She kept her eyes on him as he collected their clothes that had been strewn about the floor, and he neatly hung them over the railing to the steps. He picked up her comforter and left it at the foot of the bed, probably knowing she'd need it sooner than later. Then he brought her her phone, plugging it in and leaving it on her nightstand. He did all of it wordlessly, but there seemed to be something on his mind. Even in the dim room, she could see it written on his face. His straight brow and hard jaw, it wasn't the same expression he left with. She waited for him to climb into bed, curious as to which sleeping position he would choose. At her house, he tended to sleep on his side, facing her. Tonight, he laid on his back, letting out a soft sigh as he settled.

Michonne turned her head toward him, and then the rest of her body, studying the side of his face, wishing she could get an answer without having to ask. But alas, he only stared at the ceiling as if he were looking for something too. "What happened?" she whispered. She worried that Lori had done something else to him.

Rick took that opportunity to face her. He still hadn't figured out how to broach the subject, not when Michonne was so unpredictable about what and when she'd share. But she'd opened up the floor for conversation, and he wanted to have it. He gazed at her curious face. "Was Negan your fiancé?" he asked quietly.

Michonne stared back at him, rattled by the question and anxious about the reason for it. Was Negan downstairs or something? She knew he wasn't, but the thought unnerved her all the same. What changed so suddenly? "Yes," she admitted with a nod.

"Does he know where you are?"

"No," she said. Her voice came out small, like a child. And as she wondered where this was going, she wanted to run away like one.

"Is today your birthday?" he asked, his tone turning flat with disappointment, as if he knew she was going to lie before he could get an answer.

She paused, realizing what must've happened. She'd gotten the requisite birthday texts from all her friends and family by the time night fell – from everyone but Negan. She hadn't expected to hear from him, but it was obvious he'd sent something. Enough for Rick to put a lot of pieces together. And she wished she knew what, even if only to have an idea of how honest she needed to be here. "Yes," she answered.

Rick looked down, briefly, but long enough to notice how close their bodies were without touching. It echoed how he often felt with Michonne – close, but not quite there. The sex was sublime, and there was a connection there. Chemistry. But he wasn't sure they'd experienced true intimacy yet. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"Because I wanted to pretend it wasn't," she said.

He nodded, feeling like he had to accept that. And given what she seemed to have going on in her life, it probably even made sense. But it didn't keep him from feeling like there was some giant chasm between them. "I can read you so well," he said, reaching out to brush one of her locs from her face. "But I feel like I don't really know you."

She wanted to tell him that at this point in her life, he knew her better than anyone; even Sasha, which was saying a lot. But she imagined that would make her sound like a sociopath, at best, so she kept that tucked away. "You know me in the ways that matter," she said instead. Because it was true. Sometimes, it felt like he saw through to her soul, and that was much more important than knowing her birthdate.

Rick didn't know what that meant. "Tell me something real," he whispered.

Michonne's gaze flickered, unable to hold his any longer. The way he looked at her, begging to know her, it was so much. And she wanted to give in. She had a healthy debate in her mind about whether to tell him about the child she lost. The child she'd spent so many months mourning that she felt dead herself. Until she met him. A tear rolled down her nose, because she wanted to be able to tell him that and not have him look at her differently or feel sorry for her. Their thing, whatever it was, was good, and she couldn't run the risk of changing how he saw her.

But there were other real things that she could share with him. "I was going to marry Negan," she spoke softly, "and I'm not sure that I was in love with him," she said. Rick reached out to wipe away her tear as she spoke, and she closed her eyes. "I thought I was. I wanted to be. We were together a long time and I loved him. But… being here…" she trailed off, not allowing herself to say the part that mattered –  _being here with you_. "I don't know," she shook her head against her pillow. She looked at him again as she said, "I've started questioning a lot of things I thought I knew."

Rick nodded back at her, studying her brown eyes, wide and filled with fear, and it felt like they confirmed what she was saying. "You better be careful or you might start admitting feelings," he joked.

She smiled back. It was a sad smile, but real. Him knowing that about her was as comforting as it was terrifying.

"Was he good to you?" he asked. He didn't necessarily want to talk about Negan, but knew he needed to. The questions would eat him up otherwise.

"He was," she said with a little nod. "He was too honest sometimes," she frowned to herself. "But I convinced myself that's better than being a liar."

He went quiet again, pondering what that might've meant. Was it supposed to say something about her? "Why did you leave Atlanta?"

She swallowed, feeling tears pricking her eyes, forcing her to close them again. "I was in pain," she answered. She exhaled slowly, bracing herself for the next question. The inevitable why of it all.

"Because of him?" he asked.

She shook her head again. "No."

He only had one question left, and he wasn't sure how to ask it. Whether to ask it. It was a simple question –  _is he really your ex?_  – but loaded with the weight of distrust. Did she care if he didn't trust her? Probably not. But it was a shitty thing to put forth and he knew it. And still… "Is he really your ex?"

Michonne chuckled. Mostly out of relief that he didn't ask the other thing. "Yes," she said. She reached out to touch his face, the stubble of his cheek rough against her fingertips. "I wouldn't do that to you." She noticed the way he closed his eyes at her touch, at her words, seemingly as relieved as she was, for different reasons. "Lori did a number on you, huh?"

He scoffed at the mention of her name. He opened his eyes to look at Michonne again, the warmth of her hand on his cheek making him feel protected. "Can I tell you somethin'?"

She nodded.

"Little over a year ago, I… was comin' home with Carl early one morning," he started to say. He knew she would withdraw at the mention of his name, but he nodded back, willing her to just listen. "We'd been up here for the weekend, and he didn't feel well, so I thought I'd get an early start back so the drive would be easy," he explained. "We got back to the house, and there was a strange car sitting in our driveway, so I gave Lori a call to make sure everything was all right." He rolled his eyes at the thought. "I knew what it was, probably even before that moment, but I still walked in that house… I dunno, thinkin' wishfully, I guess."

Michonne rubbed her thumb along his cheek as she listened, knowing how the story ended and still, waiting with bated breath for him to finish.

"I walk in with Carl, fast asleep in my arms, and Lori and this guy are knocked out, naked, on the couch. She was just… on top of him." He let out another soft exhale. "I took Carl to his room and just laid down with him. I didn't know what else to do."

"Rick…"

"The thing that really got me though… when she finally realized what happened, that I'd come home and caught her, she got mad at  _me_ ," he smirked, remembering her anger so vividly. "She said I was too easy. She wanted to fight, and I didn't want to. Told me to ask myself whether I really even loved her." His smirk turned into a chuckle. "She really tried to convince me that I was in the wrong. And for a long time, I believed it." He gazed at Michonne, holding back his own set of tears. She came to this place because she was in pain. He understood that, because he had, too. "So yeah, she did a number on me."

She shook her head, staring into his sad blue eyes. Her fingers tangled in his curls as she continued to caress his face. "How could anyone cheat on you," she wondered in a whisper.

He shrugged. "It seemed pretty easy for her, actually."

"I doubt that," she sighed. "Unless she's just a terrible person."

"You sound like you're speakin' from experience."

Michonne took that opportunity to turn away, laying on her back; her turn to stare at the angled ceiling. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

He continued to gaze at the side of her face. "Do you want me to?"

"I don't know," she admitted quietly. She swallowed back tears as she confessed, "I'm caught between wanting everything from you and absolutely nothing."

Rick didn't know what to say to that, so he continued to stare. He watched as another tear slipped out of her eye, following its path down the side of her face until it seeped into her pillow. Then another tear followed. And another after that. And in that moment, it felt like he was finally seeing her naked.

"I used to be afraid of falling asleep," she spoke into the silence. Her voice was hoarse from the emotions she was still trying to keep bottled up. "I have this single, recurring nightmare. Often waiting for me whenever I close my eyes for too long. And I hate it."

"What happens in it?" he asked gently.

"It's not important," she shook her head, still unready to delve into those details. She was fairly certain she never would be, not with him. "What's important is that… with you, I've found a way to sleep."

"The nightmare went away?"

"No," she said. "And I don't know if it's… the passage of time, or being here, or being with you. Maybe all of the above," she shrugged. "But I'm just… less afraid to face that part now."

Rick's gaze didn't leave the side of her face as he chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully. He knew that wasn't easy for her to admit. None of this was. To be open when you've made it your goal to close yourself off... He was in awe of her sometimes.

Without warning or words, Michonne turned her back to him. She rearranged the sheets so that they covered them both, and then inched her way toward him; she didn't stop until her back was touching his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her, their legs intertwining. Skin to skin, cocooned in him, that was how she would fall asleep. And tonight, there were no futile prayers about not wanting to fall in love with Rick. She still didn't want to, but it was happening anyway. And now, she was less afraid to face that part, too.


	10. What's Love Got to Do With It?

"All right, go head and load it up," Rick whispered to Michonne. He stood close enough that his lips brushed her ear, and he could feel how tense she was. Which he found rather adorable, but he also knew that she was going to scare aware their prey if she didn't take the shot sooner than later.

Michonne nodded nervously, and with a fully cocked crossbow in her hands, she placed her arrow in the barrel, aligning everything properly – just as Rick had shown her multiple times now. The deer was a good 40 yards away from them, but she was apprehensive about making any moves, especially with the blanket of dead leaves beneath their feet, and so she was painfully slow to complete each task. "Sorry," she whispered back to him.

"You're fine," he assured her. He could remember how self-conscious he'd been the first time he went hunting with his friend. "Keep goin'."

Appreciating the encouragement, she went on to take aim, peering through the optical scope to see her target still chewing on grass, none the wiser. A part of her felt bad about this. Even as her dad had been a big game hunter most of her life, it wasn't something she took to, and wasn't even sure she approved of – not that it was her place to approve of anything he did. Still, she wasn't entirely sure how Rick had convinced her that this was something she wanted to try, but here she was, doing it anyway. He'd broken so many of her rules – and she probably had too many in the first place, but it was a strange feeling to have someone come along and render them all pointless. "Okay," she breathed, almost inaudibly. She squeezed the crossbow trigger, hearing it pop with its release, and her arrow went hurtling toward the deer; as it hit, she felt a surprising sense of pride wash over her. "Shit," she grinned, a bit dumbfounded that it actually worked.

Rick also looked on proudly, even as the deer tried to limp away, but knew another easy shot would take it down. "Nicely done," he said.

Soon enough, the buck was fully killed, tied, and ready to drag home, and Michonne remained in a state of disbelief at how easily she'd taken to it all. But then, the last several weeks had been full of these experiences, things she never thought she'd do; never thought  _to_  do. As the summer turned to autumn, she'd fallen into a routine she was truly  _happy_  with. Her weeks were filled with academia – exploring analytics strategies with her students and disease systems with her colleagues – while her weekends were all Rick. He'd taught her to fish and to hunt – with a rifle the first few times – and then they'd come home and devour each other. At home, they'd get lost in their own little worlds of words, and sometimes, but not always, discuss the things they read. And then they'd devour each other again. She learned how to field dress a deer and she taught him how to make her braciole. They'd made a table together – granted, he did most of the work, but she sure did love watching him do it – and she showed him how to use the iPhone he'd finally purchased. So when he was gone, phone sex turned into FaceTime sex, which was much more satisfying than she ever thought it could be. In fact, everything about her time in Tennessee had been that way. She'd come there looking for peace, not expecting to actually find it. But she had.

That particular evening, Rick and Michonne celebrated her successful hunt with a dip in the hot tub. The temperature outside had dropped to almost freezing, which was normal for October, but inside, they had a fire roaring, along with a little alcohol, and it wasn't long before the two of them were quite cozy. Michonne was sitting across from Rick, her feet resting in his lap as she took a long sip of her rum-tinged apple cider. The brew had been mulling all day long, leaving his entire cabin smelling of cinnamon and cloves. It was a perfect evening. "This is good," she commented, setting her mug back on the ledge of the tub.

Rick let out a contented sigh, agreeing, but also aroused by her toes running along his thigh. "It is," he said, his voice hoarse but relaxed. "We oughta just do this forever."

"Okay, don't get carried away over there," she warned him, smirking.

He chuckled, though her instinct to fight him on any insinuation that they were serious should have troubled him. But perhaps he was in just as much denial as she was. "Get over here," he said, nodding for her to join him on his side of the jacuzzi.

With an amused smile, she grabbed her drink and moved across the tub to sit in his lap. They were both wearing bathing suits – even with the knowledge that they'd likely just end up on the floor soon – and still, as she settled, she could feel Rick hard beneath her. "Is this why you wanted me over here?"

"It is," he said again. He wrapped one arm around her waist and the other pulled down the strap of her bathing suit, allowing himself access to her right breast; squeezing it with his wet hand as he peppered the back of her neck with kisses.

Michonne grinned again, his urgency contagious, and without thinking, she began to roll her hips, the feel of his erection against her pussy making her tingle. After the many times they'd been together by then, she should've been used to him. It didn't make sense that her physical response was still so potent. But each time he touched her, it was different. Intoxicating. Resulting in these butterflies that felt like little orgasms. She let out a quiet moan as his left hand traveled south, pushing past the elastic lining of her suit to finger her slit. He wasn't wasting any time, which made her smile. She liked how much he liked her. Craved her. She rested her body against his, and widened her legs, allowing him unfettered access to her body, and his fingers went to work. He pulled her suit to the side and massaged her clit while she continued to lightly gyrate against him. "Rick," she whispered, enjoying his fingers far too much. He was so hard, he was damn near inside her, and she wanted so badly to let him slide right in. "Let me get the condoms," she said through delighted breaths.

Rick was knuckle-deep in her pussy and hesitant to let her go, but he couldn't pretend he wasn't itching to be inside her, too. He felt like he was bursting at the seams, but he wasn't one to rush through foreplay. Lucky for him, Michonne was the impatient one between them. He released her from his grip with a sigh. "Go," he said. He playfully pulled at the back of her swimsuit, leaving him with a peek of her gorgeous, glistening backside as she stepped out of the tub.

Michonne adjusted the front of her suit before grabbing a towel so that she wouldn't drip all over the place, and then went to his nightstand where they normally kept their supply, only to find the box empty. "Shit," she huffed.

Oblivious as he sat there imagining the sex they were about to have, Rick turned to her, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I forgot to buy more," she smiled disappointedly, holding up the empty box. She examined the surrounding area and even searched the drawers to make sure they didn't have an extra one laying around somewhere.

"Shit," he agreed. "You don't have any at your house?"

Michonne shook her head. "I was supposed to be restocking for both of us."

"Is that a sign? Maybe we have too much sex?" he joked.

"No such thing," she scoffed. She was already marching toward her clothes to get dressed.

Rick watched as she stripped her wet suit from her damp body, his dick getting harder by the second. Goddamn, she was perfect. But disappointment quickly followed when he realized she was replacing said bathing suit with clothing. "What are we doin'?" he asked. He tried futilely to rub himself back down, all while she was bent over in front of him to retrieve her jeans.

"I'll be right back," she said, redressing as quickly as she could.

"You're not goin' to the store," he said. It was a question but it came out as more of a hopeful statement.

Michonne smiled, but ignored his protest as she pulled on her sweater. "What choice do we have?"

He wanted to suggest the pull out method, like plenty of other couples undoubtedly did on a regular basis. But she'd made it clear, more than once, that it wasn't an option for them. "I can go," he sighed instead. In reality, he could barely walk, but he knew she hated being out there at night. The lack of street lights was bad enough, but knowing bears were running around still had her uneasy. She saw one while he was in Nashville a couple of weeks prior, and he was two seconds from driving back to Gatlinburg just to calm her down.

But Michonne declined his offer without pause. "It was my turn to get them," she reminded him. "I'll be  _right_  back."

"Michonne…"

She only gave him a look that said she was determined to do this – mainly because she was horny as hell now, and she didn't want to be the one sitting there waiting – and then went to the door to grab her coat. "You better be ready for me when I walk in the door," she joked, picking up his keys on her way out. Of course, the second she left the house, stepping into the biting cold, she regretted her decision. She easily could've let Rick go. Stupid pride. But a part of her did enjoy the idea of riding down the mountain in his big truck, just to pick up some condoms. Good dick will do that, she supposed.

It was a little after 12:00 when she arrived at Food City and she was amused by how busy it was. Clearly, she wasn't the only person who suffered from the lack of options around there. But she'd come to find the late hours quite helpful – particularly the time she ran out of tampons, and now this. It was also quite useful for stocking up on alcohol, as she assumed most of the current patrons were. Back in Atlanta, only Walgreens and strip clubs were open past midnight.

Michonne popped into the store and picked up her merchandise within a matter of minutes. Something told her to get more than two boxes, but she preferred to avoid the judgmental stares that would undoubtedly come with that. And then it would get back to Carol, because somehow, that woman knew everything, and she didn't want to have to explain why she was buying five 12-count boxes of Magnum Thins. And then Carol would try to tell her that Magnums aren't actually any bigger, and they're marketed solely to inflate men's egos. It would be a whole thing. So she settled on two, as well as some lubricant, just in case, and checked out. But not before noticing the display of pregnancy tests in the same aisle, which sent a genuine chill down her spine.  _Way to kill the mood_ , she thought. She tried to push down the memories of when she found out she was pregnant with Anthony. She was at work. She had been sick all week and couldn't figure out why, and one of her colleagues – her friend, really, Andrea – insisted on running to the CVS across the street to get her a test. Just in case. When the test came back positive, she ended up crying in Andrea's arms. And to this day, she couldn't be honest enough with herself to decide whether they were happy tears or sad ones.

Michonne drove home with all of this on her mind, because pushing it down rarely actually worked. She didn't think about it nearly as much as she used to, but when she did, there was no escaping it. It would slap her in the face and she would have to let it sting. It usually happened when Rick was gone, so she was glad that she'd soon have him to occupy her mind, at least. Him and his magic tongue.

But when she returned to his cabin, she realized pretty quickly that her plans would be thwarted. She walked in to a dimly lit room, SZA softly playing on the speakers, and Rick curled up in bed, fast asleep. It had only been about 20 minutes, and he was still wrapped in a towel, so she knew that falling asleep hadn't exactly been in his plans, but there he was. His mouth slightly open, quietly snoring after too much apple cider. She considered waking him, wanting to continue with their regularly scheduled programming, but she couldn't bring herself to disturb him, only able to chuckle at the endearing sight.

With a soft exhale, she pulled off her coat and went to cover him with a quilt, imagining he would get cold sooner than later in just a damp towel. She brought their empty mugs to the kitchen and turned out the lights, leaving just the fire to illuminate the room. She kicked off her boots and stripped out of her jeans before climbing into bed with him, snuggling against his bare back. It wasn't exactly his tongue, but it would do.

* * *

"Hey, you." Rick had a big grin on his face as he answered his phone to see Michonne; that enchanting smile of hers lighting up the screen, while a pair of black cat ears sat on top of her head.

"Hi," she waved back at him, her eyes studying the image in front of her, too. From what she could tell, he was wearing a plaid yellow shirt with a red bandana tied around his neck, which didn't quite seem like his style. "Who... are you supposed to be?" she chuckled.

"Oh, hold on," he said, strolling across his expansive living room to grab his sheriff hat from the dining table. He sat it on top of his head with a little tilt, showing off his goofy dad persona. "How about now?"

"You're... a cowboy?" she guessed with a confused frown.

"Really?" he asked, deflated. He thought the answer would've been obvious once he put on the hat. He held his phone away from his face so that she could get a wider view, but she still looked perplexed. "I'm Woody," he said.

She grinned awkwardly, feeling silly, because it seemed like that was someone she should know, but she was still lost. "Who is that?"

"Have you never seen  _Toy Story_?"

"Ohh!" she giggled with realization. "I think the beard is what threw me off," she nodded, knowing that he knew she was full of shit.

"Well you're the one that wanted me to grow it back," he smirked. "Lemme see the rest of your costume."

"This is the extent of it," she admitted, gesturing to her ears. "I wasn't going to wear a catsuit to work."

"Ah," he nodded, recognizing her office in the background once she pointed it out. "Well... I'm not gonna object to that."

"Spencer isn't even here today," she laughed again, hearing the hint of jealousy in his voice.

"I hope he quit," Rick mumbled, taking a seat at the table to enjoy their conversation. "Since you're still at work, I take it you decided to go out with your colleagues?"

"No, I just thought I'd get some extra work done since Spencer didn't come in," she shook her head. "I'm not really feeling up to happy hour with the gang."

He nodded, though he wished she was. He tended to worry about what her life looked like when he wasn't there. Just work, even though it was something, wasn't enough. "Maybe think about it? Since you're already there anyway," he suggested.

Michonne's smile instantly tensed. He was reminding her of Negan, trying to push her to  _do_  things. Part of the reason she needed to leave was she was so exhausted of him encouraging her, even when she knew it came from a place of love. In part,  _because_  she knew that was where it came from. She hated disappointing him, and she didn't want to disappoint Rick either. She was perfectly content with doing things in her own time; when  _she_  felt ready to do them. "What time are you leaving to go trick-or-treating?" she asked instead.

"Waitin' for Carl now," he said, glancing out of the window at the darkening sky. "He's doing double duty, went in his mom's neighborhood first."

"Smart," she said, immediately regretting the question. She only did it to deflect from herself. Dumb. "By the way, I have to get up early tomorrow, so I won't be able to talk tonight."

"Oh," Rick frowned, though he was more surprised than disappointed. "What are you gettin' up for?"

"I have to pick up some supplies for my class," she said. "In Asheville."

He chuckled at the face she made as she revealed she would have to go to North Carolina. "Look at you makin' your way around the south," he said.

"You make it sound like it's something to be excited about."

"Well  _I'm_  excited for you. I love this part of the country."

"It's the only part of the country you know, Rick."

"Which is why I love it," he chuckled. "Any chance you can wait 'til Saturday? I can go with you."

"That would be nice." She smiled at the thought of setting out on the open road, just the two of them in his old truck, listening to old music as they drove toward the sunset. It sounded like a scene out of a movie she wished she was in. "But no, this guy won't be available after Thursday, so I've gotta do it tomorrow."

"Ah. Well." Rick sighed in slight disappointment. "Maybe one day."

"When it's warmer," she agreed.

"Speaking of when it's warmer, have you talked to your department guy about next semester?"

"I haven't," she admitted. She was hesitant to add the part where she wanted to use the time to work on her proposal with Spencer, so she was thankful when Rick turned his head, his attention suddenly stolen.

"I think Carl's here," he said, distracted.

Michonne knew that was her cue to skedaddle, but she had to admit the way his face lit up when he thought his son was arriving was pretty damn cute. He was so pure. But there was a doorbell ding, quickly followed by strangers' voices, and the sounds brought her back to earth. "All right, I'll talk to you later," she waved at him. "Have fun."

"You too," he grinned. "Call me when you're done tomorrow."

"I will."

With that, their conversation ended, and Rick dropped his phone to the table so he could go greet his son. He could hear him already running through the loft, shouting, " _To infinity and beyond!_ " Lori followed slowly behind him, dressed in her Halloween costume – Jessie, also of  _Toy Story_  fame – toting his backpack, as well as another bag filled with Carl's candy.

"Hey," she met Rick with an exhausted smile, handing over the items.

"Hey," he returned, chuckling at their rambunctious son as he zoomed past them. "I take it he's had some of this."

"Not even," she shook her head. "That," she gestured to Carl and his excessive energy, "is thanks to the cupcakes and candy exchange from school."

"This is what we pay for, huh," he nodded, watching him run past them for the third time in ten seconds. "Hey, Buzz," Rick called out to him. "Maybe let's come back down to earth until we go back out," he suggested.

"Okay, Dad," Carl was quick to obey. He landed in the kitchen, grabbing himself a bottle of water before joining his parents in the main room and taking a seat at the table. "How long until we leave?"

Rick glanced at his watch, seeing it was 5:40. "How about twenty minutes?"

"Okay," he sighed.

"Sugar should be illegal," Lori shook her head.

"You look like you've had a rough day," he chuckled again, seeing that her hat had fallen off near the elevator door, and she hadn't seemed to notice. "You okay?"

She smiled, appreciative of his concern. "It has been a rough day," she confirmed. "But I'm fine."

"It's not Carl, is it?"

"No," she shook her head. He'd been a handful since she picked him up from school, but he'd only exacerbated her long day; he wasn't the cause of it. "I'm just ready to go lie down for the rest of the night."

"You're not handin' out candy tonight?"

"Shane agreed to be on candy duty," she said.

Rick nodded. As much as he understood they were together, he liked to forget it when he could. It helped that he hadn't seen Shane in several weeks now – it seemed he'd finally learned to give a little distance when Rick came around. But the reminder that that man lived in his house was like an unexpected slap in the face. "Well, I've got this one," he said, referring to their son. "So go on and get some rest."

She smiled weakly and went to give Carl a kiss goodbye. "I'll see you Friday," she declared, planting a big smooch on top of his head. "Be good."

"I will, Mom," he promised, looking up at her. "Feel better."

"Thank you, bug." She turned back to Rick. "I'll see you Sunday?"

"Promptly at six," he confirmed.

"You look good," she added in passing, noticing, finally, his well-trimmed beard. She also liked his hair at this length, where his curls were extra fluffy in the back. Even in that ridiculous Woody costume, he looked great, actually. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

"I plan to," he assured her with a smirk. "I'll see you later."

As Lori trudged off to the elevator, leaving the father and son alone, Rick sat down with Carl and immediately poured out the contents of his trick-or-treat bag, a big pile of assorted candy and trinkets covering his end of the table. "You have a pretty big haul already," he commented. "You sure you still wanna go out?"

Carl looked at his father as if he had two heads, his bright blue eyes widening. "Of  _course_  I do, Dad. There's no such thing as enough."

"Is that right?" Rick laughed at his vehemence.

"That's right," he submitted proudly. "You know the places over here give out full-sized candy bars."

"That's a fair point," he nodded, almost proud of him for being so judicious about his trick-or-treating. He chose a green apple Jolly Rancher for himself and popped it in his mouth as he sat back in his chair, watching his son, utterly engrossed in his phone. Which was unsurprising, as Carl had been more excited about his iPhone purchase than anyone. "What are you doin'?" Rick asked him.

"Playing Fortnite," he answered distractedly. "It's not as good as playing on the computer, but it's good enough."

"Is that the one your mom doesn't want you to play because of the guns?"

Carl immediately set down the phone, knowing his dad would end up lecturing him if he didn't. "Yes," he admitted.

Rick nodded, chuckling. "Good call."

"Dad, can I ask you something," he said, removing the purple hood from his head in preparation for what he thought might become a serious exchange.

"Of course," Rick frowned. He was certain it would be some thorny question about gun control, as that had been a common conversation with adults as of late. But he was willing to answer, because he always tried to be honest and open with his son. He and Lori both did. Despite their many issues, he was proud of the way they parented him. "What's up?"

"Who's Mishoney," Carl asked instead.

Rick nearly choked on his candy, wondering where Carl had seen her name. His first inclination was to worry that he managed to find her X-rated pictures, despite Michonne showing him how to hide them, but he quickly realized that made no sense – he wouldn't know her name that way. And had it been the case, he was fairly certain that wouldn't have been Carl's opening question. "Michonne," he said, correcting the pronunciation as he regained his composure, "is a friend. Why?"

Carl shrugged. "They sent you a text. It said, 'Have fun.'"

He nodded back, relieved it hadn't said anything more than that. "What did I tell you about reading my messages?"

"I couldn't help it!" he said defensively. "It came up at the top of the screen."

"Which is exactly why you should be usin' your stuff and not mine," Rick said.

"We could've avoided this if you had just locked your phone," Carl mumbled.

"All right, watch yourself," Rick warned him, sliding the phone across the table so it was back in his possession. "Why don't you go back to runnin' around," he smirked.

"Is Michonne a boy or a girl friend?" Carl asked, ignoring his father's advice.

Rick was hesitant to respond – certainly after weeks of Michonne being so resistant to the 'girlfriend' label. Though he knew it wasn't what Carl was asking, it was what he thought to answer. "She's a girl," he eventually replied. "She lives in Gatlinburg, near the cabin."

Carl nodded with recognition. "Is that why you go there every weekend?"

"In part," he granted with his own nod. "I started goin' because it's quiet there. It's relaxing."

"It's a long drive…"

"You get used to it."

"I haven't," Carl said.

"That's because you're young, and to you, three hours feels like three days."

"There's also nothing to do up there," Carl added, his face scrunching at the thought of being in that boring place every weekend. He only liked that cabin in very small doses. "What do you and Michonne do?"

Rick chuckled. "We find things to do," he said with a shrug. "We've gone hunting and fishing and we cook. Sometimes we just hang out and read..."

"Fun," he noted sarcastically. Old people were so weird.

"It is fun," he assured his son. "We don't even need a TV."

Carl stared at his dad, certain that he was lying to him. None of that made any sense in his mind. "So are you  _just_ friends?" he wondered. "Or are you, like, 'Mom and Shane' friends?"

Rick let out a heavy sigh, his entire torso rising and falling with his inhale and exhale. "We're friends," he said. So much for all that openness.

He nodded again, feeling like his dad's sigh was more of an answer than the answer. "Do I get to meet her?"

Rick's eyes flitted around the room almost nervously. He didn't know what to say to that. He'd been avoiding the subject so long with Michonne, he was averse to even broaching it with her. And he was fairly sure he knew what her response would be. "Maybe," he offered diplomatically. "That's somethin' you wanna do?"

"You know all my friends," Carl shrugged.

"It's my job to know all your friends," he laughed.

"Yeah, I know. But if you spend every weekend with this friend, I think she's probably special."

Rick nodded again, impressed with his son's deductive reasoning – among other things. The kid was going to be smarter than him before he knew it, which was terrifying. "All right," he conceded. "Maybe I'll see if she'd like to come over for Thanksgiving."

Carl was happy to hear it. More than that, he was happy to know that his father wasn't as alone as he previously thought. He'd noticed that he'd been in a better mood in recent weeks, though he'd chalked it up to the fact that Shane had been around a little less. But it was a relief to find that his dad had someone the same way his mom did. He would've preferred his parents to be together, of course, but if he couldn't have that, he just wanted them to be happy apart. He just hoped that this Michonne person ended up being at least equally as cool as Shane had been.

* * *

A couple of weekends later, Rick and Michonne were back in the woods, fully immersed in the chill of autumn in the Tennessee mountains. They were chopping wood for the forthcoming week, knowing Michonne's need for it would only increase as the days went by. The daily highs barely reached 40 in November, and at night, they were experiencing temperatures in the 20s – which usually left her cabin freezing, thanks to its size.

"Not that I didn't understand it before, but I think I finally grasp the weight of what it means when they say, 'Winter is coming' in Westeros," Michonne commented as she tiredly threw another armful of wood into their wheelbarrow. "Preparing for it takes so much work."

"You're using words that I think I'm supposed to understand, but I don't," Rick said. He, too, let out an exhausted huff, a gust of cold air following his breath, as he looked around at their stockpile. "You think this is enough?"

"I think so," she answered, but she was much more concerned with the fact that he didn't appreciate her reference. "I'm sorry, have you never seen  _Game of Thrones_?"

He shrugged as he threw his axe in with the rest of the wood. "Is that a problem?"

"Not a  _problem_ ," she said. "Just… disappointing."

"You've been here for almost four months now and never even mentioned it," he laughed.

"That's because I assumed you watched it like everyone else," she said. But then, he was right. Since she'd been in Tennessee, she'd been nowhere near as dependent on TV as she once was. It went along with that whole 'being able to sleep again' she'd experienced as of late. She'd really been on the verge of collapse when she moved there, and now, she was three months sober, so to speak. "Your nose is red," she observed with a grin. He was wearing a suede bomber jacket, which made him look both soft and menacing somehow – perhaps because she'd just watched him work a hatchet for the last several hours – but his ears and nose turning pink from the cold decidedly swayed him to the softer side.

"We can't all be lucky enough to have all that melanin," he joked, his eyes drinking her in from top to bottom. Even wrapped in layers of clothing, she looked positively delectable.

"We should go," she said, catching the trajectory of his gaze. She liked when he looked at her like he wanted to eat her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – because he usually ended up doing exactly that.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, already trampling through the leaves to retrieve his chainsaw. "You wanna take this?" he asked, holding up the machinery. "Or the wood?"

"Well the wood has wheels, so that," she smirked knowingly. "But I appreciate you offering both options."

"Well you know I'm all about equity," he grinned.

"You are," she granted, following him down the path back toward his truck. She was glad he took the lead so she wouldn't have to admit she had no idea where she was going. "It's one of the reasons I trust you," she added.

He looked back at her, pleasantly surprised to hear that. He knew she trusted him, but he never quite knew why – especially as it seemed she didn't do so easily. "Is that right?"

"Yes," she quietly confessed. She stayed close behind him, which seemed to highlight her point. "One night we were talking," she said, "and you said something about parenting that really made me take notice."

Rick nodded with recognition. "That night we first…"

"Yes," she answered quickly, not wanting to be reminded of that terrible, awkward night. They were so far past that now. As they reached his truck, the sun was getting low in the sky, and she knew it would be dark before long. "Do we have something to make for dinner tonight?"

"I have that ground beef," he said after a brief moment of thought. "I can make some chili."

"We should've started on that earlier," she remarked. "...But then I guess we could have a late dinner."

"Yes, we can do somethin' outside of our usual routine," he replied, amused. He loved this conversation, how domestic it sounded – the woman who didn't want to be in a relationship certainly liked to act like she was in one.

She watched as he began to load his truck with their supplies, and she meant to help, but she was dumbstruck by his tone, so she ended up only staring. "Why does it feel like you're trying to imply that I'm boring?" she asked.

Rick chuckled, stopping what he was doing to assure her, "I'm not." When she cocked her head in disbelief, he added, "I think you can be rigid. It's difficult for you to move outside your comfort zone. And that's fine."

She nodded, glad to know how he felt, if nothing else. "Okay," she said simply. With a smirk, she grabbed his keys from his jacket pocket and went to warm up the car.

"While we're talkin' about equity, you're welcome to help with this," he called up to her when he realized she was staying in the truck. Though in truth, he didn't mind the manual labor – it kept him warm, at least. He finished within a couple of minutes and hopped into the passenger side of his car, immediately noticing a peculiar smile sitting on Michonne's face as she waited for him. He was concerned that he was in trouble. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she shrugged, though she was already undressing him with her eyes and not even trying to hide it. "How much do you care about this car?" she asked.

A baffled pair of eyebrows knitted over his narrowed blue eyes. Was this why she was in the driver's seat? To wreck his car? "Not sure I like this line of questioning," he joked.

"Well now who's rigid?" she teased. To ease his obvious apprehension, she turned off the engine and turned her entire body toward him. They didn't need heat for what she wanted to do anyway. "Take off your pants," she said.

He grinned as he bit his lower lip, recognizing now why she'd asked about his car. "That sounds like an order."

"It's a request," she said. She closed the small distance between them, inching across the cab to help him; thankful that there was no obstruction between the seats, thereby making her seduction much easier. As he unbuckled his belt, she unfastened his jeans, rubbing his dick through his boxers the second the plaid fabric came into view. She smiled. He smiled, too. He lifted his body so that she could pull down his pants, and his head awkwardly hit the roof of the car, making both of them stop to laugh.

"Are you okay?" she asked, still giggling as she reached out to caress his head.

He sobered as he stared at her gorgeous face, still in awe that he got to do this with her on a regular basis. "I'm good," he said, distracted by her lips. She was perched in front of him, and so he pulled her in for a kiss, chaste and warm, to combat the biting cold. He smiled to himself as she gave special attention to his top and bottom lips separately, before pushing her tongue into his mouth, unshy about letting it dance with his. Her fingers combed through his curls, as they often did, while he gripped the back of her head, desperate to pull her closer. Her lips consumed him, their tongues bathing each other until the air in the car was hot, the windows foggy; he could barely breathe, and he loved it.

Michonne slipped her hand between them and into his boxers, her fingers tangling in his hair until she reached his cock. He moaned into her mouth as she gently massaged him, feeling him growing stiffer by the second. She pulled out of their kiss, concerned she was going to suffocate with everything they had going on. "Hold on," she whispered. She unwrapped herself from her scarf and coat while he also peeled off his jacket, the two of them knocking and bumping limbs in the confined space. Once they were freer, she moved to straddle him, hungry for another kiss, but this time it was Rick who pulled back.

"We should get back home," he said; gazing up at her, he pushed her hair back from her face. He wished he'd had the foresight to bring along a Trojan or two.

"You can pull out," she shook her head, reading his mind. She punctuated her sentence with another quick kiss. "Right?"

Rick smiled wide, giving her chin a gentle peck before pulling at the hem of her sweater, lifting it over her head. He licked at her cleavage as it was revealed to him, pulling her tits from the cups of her bra to suck at her cold, hardened nipples, all while she grinned with delight. She loved the way his tongue traversed her body like he couldn't get enough, while his soft beard tickled her skin, his strong hands spanning the small of her back. It was cold in that car, but he made her feel so damn hot.

"If you don't pull out, I will murder you," she warned him. Her fingers were affectionately running through his curls, starkly contrasting her words.

"Way to set the mood," he chuckled, his hand moving down her back to palm her ass. He nodded for her to get into position, knowing he was likely to explode before they got started with her on top of him like this. "Turn around," he said.

Michonne bumbled her way to kneeling on the seat, facing away from Rick. She was unbuttoning her jeans when she felt him pressed against her; smiling as he pulled down her pants and he let out a little chuckle when he saw that she wasn't wearing any panties. She attempted to squeeze the seat when he began to finger her, but the old, soft leather did nothing to steady her. So she closed her eyes and reveled in the pleasure.

Rick did the same as he rubbed the tip of his dick along her opening, relishing the feeling of being skin to skin for the first time. She was so deliciously wet, so soft, her flesh felt like heaven; his mouth hung open as he pushed inside of her, a light groan falling from it as he sent himself deeper. He could feel her clenching around him, and he had to pull out – just in case. "Fuck," he whispered, squeezing her ass. This was going to be harder than he thought.

"Come on," Michonne pled, dissatisfied with just the tease. He eased back inside her and she let out a long, loud moan. "Yeah," she mewled, undone by the sensation of him filling her up. She didn't think there would be much difference without the condom, not for her, but fuck. She felt everything so much more intensely, down to the curve of his head as it slid past her walls. Each time he pulled out and back in, it made her entire body quiver, her eyes rolling upward. When he began to gently thrust, she didn't know what to do with herself. He felt so goddamn good inside her. She had to grab the steering wheel, desperate for something to hold onto, while also eager to let go. "Rick," she breathed as he picked up his pace. She could feel his balls knocking against her, while her tits bounced in rhythm, the car feeling like a sauna as the minutes passed. It was hot in every sense of the word. "Yes," she breathed.

Rick was only encouraged by her moans, fucking her harder and faster with every thrust. Her ass jiggling against him was a thing of beauty, and it was also going to be the thing that killed him soon. The sound of their skin beating together accompanied their breathing, while their fluids dripped down Michonne's thighs, the scent filling the car to create a sensory overload. "God. Damn," he grunted, feeling like he was swimming in her wet pussy, and the way her ass moved in waves had him hypnotized. "'Chonne," he panted, unable to get out the first syllable.

"Rick," she whimpered. She used her left hand to finger herself, rubbing gently at her clit while he fucked her from behind, the paired pleasure driving her insane. "God."

"I'm gonna cum," he warned her, that familiar orgasmic feeling rumbling in his core.

"Hold on," Michonne begged, her eyes closed as she tried to focus on her own climax. "I'm almost there."

"Michonne," he growled, knowing he'd be powerless to stop it. But he continued grinding until he felt her finish, a clenching unlike anything he'd felt before, followed by a warm gush of cum coating his dick, while a mixture of curses and her enraptured moans filled the car.

"Fuck," she breathed, her nails digging into the gray leather interior. Suddenly, she could no longer feel her thighs and she wanted nothing more than to collapse, but she held on until Rick was done, too.

He pulled out just in time, his eyes closing with his blissful release, his seed spilling onto her backside, like icing on her cake. Sated and breathless, he pulled off his t-shirt, using it to wipe her clean, so they could then fall into each other's arms. It was quick and messy, the car unbearably hot, leaving everything a blur, and still, it was the best sex they'd had so far. "Are we gonna have to go back to condoms after this?" Rick wondered out loud, running his fingers along Michonne's dampened back.

Michonne giggled. She understood where he was coming from – she really, really did – but... she would rather be rigid than pregnant. "Yes, Rick, we do."

* * *

It was a typical Saturday night for Rick and Michonne – the two of them lounging on the couch, the fireplace crackling as they read their respective novels. Michonne was rereading Tayari Jones'  _Silver Sparrow_  in anticipation of her new book being released in a few months; while Rick was halfway through another recommendation from his brother-in-law –  _Exit West_. And as much as they both enjoyed the sex, and probably did fuck too much, they also cherished these quiet moments. Their relationship was founded on it. The comfortable silence they shared. Moments of observation. Where Michonne would glance up and see Rick's eyebrows furrowed, and she knew he was trying to make sense of what he just read. Or when he'd scratch at his beard thoughtfully because he found something interesting. And this was how Rick learned that Michonne was more affectionate than she tried to let on – she liked to be close to him, even if it just meant their feet were touching. Every now and then, he would feel her toes wiggling against the ball of his foot, making him smile as he read.

And he probably should've left the moment there, appreciating their quiet ease. They only had two days a week together, after all. But it had been a good day, as most of their days were these past couple of months, and he couldn't keep avoiding the subject. "Hey," he said softly. He turned his hardcover over on his thigh and waited for her to come to a stopping point.

"Hey," she absently returned, still captivated by her text.

"I want you to come to Nashville," he declared, his tone cool and calm, despite the nervous energy coursing through him, down to the thump of his heart. When she finally looked up at him, he replied with a little nod as he added, "Not tomorrow or anything. But for Thanksgiving."

Michonne wrinkled her nose, thinking Thanksgiving  _was_  practically tomorrow. "Really?" she said, solely because she was too unprepared to respond with an outright no.

"Lori and I are splitting Carl's Thanksgiving break, and he's been askin' to meet you," he started to explain, but could see her eyes dilate at the mention of his son's name. "...I thought maybe a group dinner would ease the tension…"

"You told your son about me." It was a question, but she realized it had come out as a statement. A fact she would have to find some way to accept.

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I hadn't thought about it," she shook her head. She'd done everything in her power not to think about it, in fact.

"We've been at this for almost three months," he reminded her.

"I know."

"So yeah, I'm gonna mention you to my son," he chuckled tensely. "He just thinks we're friends."

Michonne was full on frowning by then, still trying to process the idea that he wanted her to come to Nashville and interact with his child. On a family holiday, of all things. Would she be meeting his ex, too? And Shane? It all felt dangerously close to a real relationship. "How old is your son again?" she asked, deflecting. She knew he was eight. That fact didn't leave her mind, because it often sent it wandering to what Anthony might've looked like at that age. She'd only gotten to hold him for a few minutes after delivering him, and through her exhaustion and sorrow, she was never sure she remembered him quite correctly. Through her blur of tears, she had a picture in her head of a round face, olive skin and tiny fingers, a head full of soft black hair. She squeezed her eyes shut in hopes of blocking it out.

"He's eight," Rick replied hesitantly, detecting her discomfort. "It's fine if you don't want to," he added, not wanting to ruin their evening. He knew there was a chance she wouldn't be into the idea, and he took it, because he wanted her to know Carl. "I just thought, since he asked, and he's the most important person in my life, you might be interested."

Michonne immediately rolled her eyes at his attempt to emotionally manipulate her. "Don't do that passive aggressive shit," she said, pulling her feet from his lap. "You're better than that." She planted her feet on the floor and set her book on the coffee table.

"I'm not bein' passive aggressive," he said, "I'm bein' honest."

"Rick, we're not… a serious thing," she said, reminding him of what she'd warned him of months ago. She ran a frustrated hand over her face. "What we have works because of that. No one asked you to bring your kid into it."

He visibly bristled in response, his jaw clenching as he looked out of his window, sorely tempted to hop in his truck and leave right then. He could take her rejecting him. In a lot of ways, it fascinated him, trying to figure out the reasons she kept him at arm's length. He'd largely stopped digging at that point, because he felt satisfied with what she'd given him. Or rather, it felt like it was all she had to give at the moment. He was fine with baby steps. And maybe this was too big a step and he'd dug too far. But it felt like a rejection of his son, and that was something he couldn't take. "Maybe you should go back to your house tonight," he said, his twang hushed, hoping to conceal the fact that he was piqued by the snub.

Michonne looked over to him, taken aback by the suggestion. The idea of him being down the road and them sleeping apart was so foreign to her. The last time that happened, they were still strangers. "No," she said. She knew it wasn't exactly optional, that he  _wanted_ her to go, but she wasn't going to let him kick her out over this. "I'll sleep on the couch if you really want me to, but I don't think I should leave."

"So I guess this is only a relationship when you want it to be," Rick noted in a mumble as he picked himself up from the sofa. For the first time in the many years he'd owned this place, he wished he had more than one room.

Michonne didn't respond, partly – maybe mostly – because she knew he was right, and there was nothing to respond with. She watched him saunter toward the bathroom, pulling off his shirt in the process.

"Just keep doing whatever the hell you want," he said before closing the door behind him.

Michonne let out a heavy, shaky sigh, knowing she was on the verge of fucking up the one really good thing she'd somehow managed to find in her mess of a life. But she really wasn't ready to open up the can of worms that included children. She just wasn't.

She got up and went to the bar to fix herself a drink, smiling sadly as she thought of their first time, right there. She wished she had listened to herself that night when she vowed not to get too involved with this man. Now, here she was feeling guilty because she didn't want to put herself through the heartbreaking ordeal of meeting his child. Not when she was still grieving her own.

He was probably right that she should go home. Why was she staying? To make herself feel worse? To continue pretending they could ever truly be close when she had this one unbreakable wall up? She poured herself a glass of scotch and chugged it down before he even started his shower. She grabbed her coat and flashlight and the big stick she took whenever she walked to his house now – not that it could save her from a bear, but it made her feel better. And without any other words, she headed out.

* * *

The next morning, Michonne awoke on her own couch, discombobulated and cold. When she got home the night before, she was too defeated to kindle a fire, and so she drank some wine, curled up with a couple of fleece blankets, and called it a night. She was paying for it now, feeling like she'd slept in an igloo all night, not to mention the ache in her back and joints. It seemed that 36 was already rearing its ugly head.

She forced herself up and immediately started on some breakfast, mainly in hopes of warming up the house. But it was still early – still dark, in fact – so she thought she would make some biscuits and bring them to Rick before he left for the week. A sort of peace offering.

Though she had no idea if he'd be receptive to something like that. It was the first time they'd had anything resembling an actual argument. He generally took her aloofness in stride. And when he didn't, he would push, and she would let him. It was her first time drawing a truly hard line in the sand, and she could only hope she wouldn't come to regret it.

By the time her kitchen counters were covered in flour and the biscuits were going into the oven, there was a soft knock at the door. She didn't have to look to know it was Rick, because it was never anyone else. "Hey," she greeted him at the door. She noticed that he'd driven over, which likely meant he was about to leave for Nashville. She appreciated that he stopped to see her first – as if he'd read her mind. Or maybe he just hated the way their conversation ended as much as she did. "I didn't even hear your truck," she commented, leaving him to follow her to the kitchen.

Rick did follow, but not too far, wanting to make it a quick visit. He could see and smell that she was cooking something, and he didn't want to be tempted to stay. "I just wanted to let you know that I probably won't be out here next weekend," he announced evenly. "Figure I should use that time to prepare for the holiday."

Michonne made a concerted effort not to visibly react, and simply glanced at him, noting the way he stood in the middle of her living room as if he was afraid to get too close. He was still mad at her. He came over to tell her he was still mad at her. "Okay," she said. She returned to her task of cleaning off the counters, unwilling to play whatever game this was.

He chuckled mockingly, figuring that would be her response. "This is really how you wanna do this?"

"Rick, I woke up this morning thinking we could start on a new page, because obviously we ended up on different ones last night," she said, gesturing to her mess of a kitchen. "You're the one who came over here to continue your tantrum."

"I came over here because I didn't wanna be immature and leave without sayin' anything," he said. "But I'm not gonna pretend I'm not bothered by this whole thing."

She nodded. "Well… have a safe trip home," she said, offering a strained smile as the period at the end of her sentence.

Rick nodded back. He had to force himself to accept that maybe she would never truly let down her guard for him. He said it was fine that she didn't want to leave her comfort zone, but if he were to be honest with himself, it wasn't. It wasn't enough. "You said you didn't wanna push me away, but that's what you're doin'."

"Don't throw that back at me," she said. She stopped cleaning and planted herself in the corner of her kitchen, coolly crossing her arms over her chest as she rested against the counter. "What is it that you want?"

"Do you just not like kids?" he asked.

Michonne rolled her eyes. "I don't wanna have this conversation again," she said.

"We barely had one the first time."

"Meeting your son makes this serious, and I'm not ready to be serious."

"All right, well maybe I should stop driving out here every weekend for somethin' that's not serious," he suggested sarcastically.

"If you had somewhere better to be every weekend, I'm sure you would've been there," she shot back.

He smiled at the bite in her tone. "All right."

"So I shouldn't expect you anytime soon?" she guessed.

"So you're just gonna spend Thanksgiving here?" he asked, ignoring her continued derision. "Alone?"

She shrugged, not having even considered it. The last few years, she'd gone to New York for Thanksgiving weekend, spending it with Negan's family; then they'd go to Iowa for Christmas. But she was trying desperately to leave that life behind, which meant ignoring the fact that the holidays were quickly approaching, and she had no plans. Nowhere to go. "I have papers to grade," she said.

With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, he walked toward her finally, until he was closer than he wanted to be. He pulled a scrap of paper from his right pocket and set it on the counter in front of her – his address, in case she changed her mind. He considered just doing this by text, but thought it was important to try and have one more face-to-face dialogue before he left. "Whatever this is you're doin', you don't have to do it by yourself," he said, his voice soft but clear. "People don't exist…  _I_  don't exist to distract you from whatever it is you're runnin' from. It's all right if we mean somethin' to each other."

Michonne knew she should've left it at that. She wanted to. But again, he pushed. So she pushed back. "Maybe you should've listened to me when I told you we couldn't be anything," she said before he could walk away. Her voice was hard, but muddled with her mixed emotions. "You can't be mad at me for being exactly who I said I was."

Rick nodded again, his eyes scanning her face for what he saw just a few days ago. Love. He couldn't find it. He was almost impressed at the way she turned it on and off so easily. He wished he could do the same. "Fair enough," he said, turning for the door. Still, he left his address.

Michonne watched him walk away. With that gait that always drove her so crazy. Now it did for a different reason. Because he was leaving her, and she was too prideful, angry, and scared to stop him. As the front door closed behind him, she threw down her dishtowel, frustrated, and she didn't know whether to be mad at him or herself.


	11. I've Got This Friend

Thanksgiving had arrived, and in the time since Rick and Michonne last saw one another – in her cabin, two Sundays prior – the two had yet to speak, or even attempt to. Rick did consider giving in, as was typical in his last relationship; he even picked up his phone on multiple occasions with the intent to call and apologize. But every time he did so, he was met with the reminder that Michonne wasn't calling him either. Each time he checked his missed calls and texts, it was with the hope that he'd find her name among them. But alas, there was nothing. And so, his pride wouldn't allow him to make the first move – not after the beating it had taken in nearly a decade with Lori.

Instead, he went about his life, preparing for the dinner party he'd offered to host for the holiday. It was a family affair, including Lori, and by extension, Shane; as well as his brother, Aaron, and by extension, his husband Ezekiel. But it was also for their closest friends – his right hand man, Daryl; his oldest friend, Morgan, along with his wife and son, Jenny, and Duane. Lori invited her best friend, Denise, and her girlfriend, Tara. From their old neighborhood, their friend, Hershel, who'd been more like a father to both Lori and Rick in recent years – he brought his own daughters, Maggie and Elizabeth. And lastly, there was Enid, because Carl wouldn't dare not invite her, and her parents, Olivia and Scott to complete the guest list. Rick had a full house. So as much as he might've wanted Michonne to come, he certainly didn't  _need_  her there. He had his own distractions.

And as dinnertime approached, he was quite happy for the diversion of setting the table, listening to everyone else argue about whether to turn on the Cowboys game – the NFL had become a controversial subject as of late – when Lori came to join him. He hadn't asked for or even necessarily wanted the help, but he didn't say anything when she began to place plates and utensils amongst the food dishes.

"This all looks so good," she commented eagerly, though in truth, her gleaming eye was drawn specifically to the macaroni and cheese, knowing it was a Jenny Jones creation. She could smell the sharp cheddar, the top layer of it a perfect golden crust. They might have to stop her from eating the entire giant pan on her own.

"You look like you're salivating," Rick noted with a chuckle as he made his way around her. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she grinned, embarrassed that he noticed, "just hungry."

"Yeah, I've been sneaking little bites of those collard greens Zeke made," he admitted. "He put the jalapeños in 'em. They're so good."

"Well now I know why you volunteered to set the table," Lori smirked.

"Well it is my house. I don't know who else would do it."

"I'm here," she said, sounding offended that he hadn't considered asking her for help. "I know this isn't my home," she was quick to add before he could protest. "I just mean, it's not all on you just because we're here. We agreed to keep doing this as a family."

Rick exhaled heavily, his stare flitting to where Shane stood in his living room. Yes, he had agreed to this, for Carl's sake, and knew it meant being cordial toward a man he wished he had nothing to do with. It was something he prepared for. But it still struck a dissonant chord to see Shane in his home, socializing with his friends and family. "Yeah..." he nodded. "I agreed to a lot of things."

Lori nodded back, seeing his gaze had landed on her boyfriend. She thought, perhaps too hopefully, that Rick extending this dinner invite to Shane meant that he was ready to have him around, but she could see where that wasn't the case. Maybe he'd been overly optimistic about it, too. "Rick, I really appreciate you having him here," she said, her voice hushed; her words sincere. "I know how hard all of this has been on you."

"I'm all right," he said with a shrug and an empty smile. As a reflex, he pulled his phone from his pocket, quietly hoping that Michonne had recently contacted him, perhaps changing her mind at the last minute. It was a senseless wish, he knew, but it was his last hope. "I'm gonna get the turkey," he added, turning for the kitchen before she could respond. There, he found Carl, suspiciously quiet as he stood at the breakfast table – which happened to be the dessert table until the group was ready for the final course. "What are you doin'?" Rick asked coolly.

Startled, Carl immediately turned to his father and was just as quick to deny any wrongdoing. "Nothing," he said.

Rick laughed at the guilt written all over his face. "Well do me a favor and stop breathing on the pies, and take those pitchers of lemonade out to your mother."

"Yes, sir," he nodded; he was just relieved he wasn't in trouble.

"Be careful," he added.

"I will," Carl promised.

As Rick went to the oven to retrieve the centerpiece of the meal, he could hear Lori calling everyone to the table. It was so funny how she insisted on being cohost, despite his objections, as if they were still some happy couple. And by 'funny', he did mean exasperating. Had dinner been at her place this year, he never would've taken it upon himself to act as though it was his home, too. Even when technically, it still was.

But he ignored to get on with his day – the sooner dinner started, the sooner it would be over. He brought the turkey to the dining table, much to everyone's delight, while plates and platters were passed around with the ancillary dishes. Honey-baked ham and buttermilk fried chicken, sweet potatoes, collards and cornbread, green bean casserole, Brussels sprouts, macaroni and cheese, roasted corn pudding, eggplant dressing. Not to mention that assortment of pies waiting in the kitchen. They had a full banquet of food before them.

"Everything looks so good," Morgan remarked, already consuming it all with his eyes. "Nicely done, everyone."

"I propose that anyone who didn't cook gets served last," Maggie joked, as she, too, was anxious to dive in.

"Well then," Morgan laughed with everyone else, pretending to retreat from the table, "just save me some dark meat."

As Rick carved up the turkey, making sure to save some dark meat for his friend, he found himself feeling unusually petty, and turned his attention to the table's newest addition. "Shane, I must've missed what you made," he said, phrasing his statement as a question. Even Daryl, who wasn't exactly known for his culinary skills, brought moonshine for the occasion, a row of mason jars sitting in the windowsill of the kitchen, waiting to be consumed.

"Oh man, y'all wouldn't wanna eat anything I had my hands on," Shane replied, laughing; oblivious to Rick's dig. "Trust me on that."

"Though he very sweetly went grocery shopping for me," Lori interjected in his defense. "So there'd be no casserole without him."

"Oh, so we have you to blame," Aaron grinned.

Rick laughed, knowing his brother wasn't kidding, even behind that saccharine smile. He also caught how little it took for Shane to receive praise from Lori. Grocery shopping while she did the cooking sounded like an even exchange to him. But the bar was on the floor for some men, it seemed. "All right," he declared, having sliced and chopped a good portion of the turkey for serving. "Help yourselves."

"Wait, wait, wait," Tara held up her hand, stopping everyone before they could dig in. "It seems like this is the kind of occasion where we should make a toast first."

"We should say  _grace_  first," Hershel chimed in, correcting her.

"Not everyone is religious," Shane quietly pointed out, uncomfortable with the idea of saying a prayer in such diverse company.

"Not everyone has a drink either," Denise said, noticing Lori's empty glass. She reached for the wine bottle closest to her with every intention of filling her up, but not before her friend could stop her.

"I'm not... I mean... I think I'm just gonna have some lemonade," Lori stammered, wishing she had been able to stop her more discreetly. Now all eyes were on her, and she could only hope it didn't turn into a whole thing.

"Really?" Denise pressed. It didn't sound like her to turn down a good Chardonnay – their friendship was built on it, really. "Are you okay?" She jokingly checked her forehead to see if she had a fever.

"I'm fine," Lori smiled awkwardly. "I'm the designated driver."

"You're not leaving for hours..."

"Maybe she's pregnant," Elizabeth sarcastically commented under her breath, but she immediately shrank back when she realized people heard her.

Lori glanced guiltily around the table, debating whether there was any point to keeping up the charade. To deny it now, only to have to admit it later? She wished she'd had the opportunity to tell Carl first, and even Rick, but given the way everyone else was staring at her, it seemed the cat was out of the bag. She looked to Shane for confirmation that he was okay with confirming the news, receiving an encouraging nod in return. "Actually," she said with a timid smile, turning her attention to Carl as she gently stroked the back of his head, "I am."

There were a few small gasps, followed by 'oh my god's, while most everyone simply congratulated her, but Rick felt like he was seeing double as the news came out of her mouth. The other voices, their laughter, it became a haze of white noise. When they finally raised their glasses to the happy, expectant couple, Rick could feel Aaron's hand touch his back, rubbing it comfortingly. But it only amplified his anguish. Because he was certain that his brother wasn't the only person looking to him, wondering how he felt about the revelation. Could they see it on his face? Did he look as sick as he felt?

"So when are you due?" Jenny asked.

"Late May," Lori answered quickly. "Right around Memorial Day."

Carl sat beside his mother as she answered what seemed to be an endless barrage of questions, a little confused as to what it all meant. He still wasn't quite clear on where babies came from, and how people were allowed to get them if they weren't married. It was a lot to take in at the dinner table. "Is it gonna be a boy or a girl?" he questioned once he noticed a lull in the conversation.

"We don't know yet, bug," Lori smiled at him. "We'll find out in a few weeks."

"She thinks it's gonna be a little girl," Shane added with his own proud grin. "Either way, I hope he or she is gonna be ready to play some football."

"Okay," Lori shook her head. She was trying not to sound too excited in front of Rick, knowing this couldn't have been the easiest news for him to hear. He hadn't said anything in several minutes, and she wished she could reach out to him without drawing any more attention.

"So," Carl went on, still perplexed, "is this baby still gonna be my sister or brother?"

"Of course," she chuckled, affectionately cupping his face. "You have the same mom, so she or he will be your half sister or brother."

"Oh." He scrunched his nose, thinking he should've figured that out on his own. There were plenty of kids at school in similar situations. "Cool."

"But I think we probably wanna get back to dinner instead of letting all this good food get cold, huh?" she suggested.

"We should. But  _not_  without saying grace," Hershel declared, looking pointedly at Shane.

It was then that Rick finally spoke, feeling like his head had stopped swimming long enough to croak out a few words. "I, um… forgot the cranberry sauce," he said in a mumble, desperate for an excuse to escape the table.

He slipped into the kitchen and went to search the refrigerator for the dish Beth had prepared. But instead, he stood in the doorway, taking a long, deep breath, letting the cool air bathe his face. He exhaled shakily, as the urge to call Michonne had only deepened, and he was finding it hard to resist. Maybe if she'd come to dinner like he asked, this announcement wouldn't have hit him nearly as hard. Maybe it would've, and both of their nights would be ruined. And maybe that would've been asking too much of her. But god, he wished she was there. He had become so comfortable with her over the last four months. Her presence kept him calm, her touch kept him warm. After months of feeling so alone after he and Lori were done. She came along, damaged and cold herself, and she'd saved him in a way. He supposed that was why it hurt so much, her not being there when he asked her to be. When he needed her to be.

He closed the refrigerator door, ready to uselessly check his phone for the fifth time that day, but his brother came strolling into the kitchen before he could disappoint himself again. Aaron didn't say anything, but offered a sympathetic smile, having figured his older brother didn't really run off just for jellied cranberries.

"I'm all right," Rick assured him, detecting his concern.

"It's okay if you're not," Aaron said, keeping his voice low so that they couldn't be heard. He leaned against the sink as he stared at his sibling. "She did a number on you."

"I'm not… it's not that," Rick said, shaking his head. "I'm over her. I think. Mostly. I just… didn't see this comin', I guess."

"She's been screwing him for who knows how long now. What'd you think was gonna happen?"

He smirked at Aaron's candor. "I didn't think about it."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing she hasn't been on your mind."

"Not at all," he shrugged.

"The opposite of love is indifference, after all," Aaron submitted with a raised eyebrow. Clichéd as it might have been, it was true. The time he spent hating her was time he spent thinking about her. This was a much better alternative.

Rick chuckled. "I've just been occupying my time with other things…"

Aaron had an idea of just what those other things were, as Carl had given him the intel on one Michonne Godard. A quick Google told him that she was a gorgeous PhD from Atlanta, which was already an upgrade, as far as he was concerned. But he would wait to let Rick spill those details in his own time. The fact that she wasn't there told him it probably wasn't serious yet, but anything had to be better than the time he wasted with Lori. "So can I ask you something without you getting defensive?"

"That depends on how offensive it is," Rick shot back.

He knew what was coming, but decided to ask it anyway. "When are you gonna get her out of that house you're still paying for?"

Rick chuckled, because he, too, knew what was coming. "I'm still payin' for it for Carl," he said. "I don't mind."

"Mom is right that you let her walk all over you," Aaron rolled his eyes. "You think Carl would care that much about living in a new house? Do you know how much he loves it here?"

"I don't know," Rick granted, shrugging again. "But we didn't wanna totally displace him and find out. Because when your family falls apart, you do everything you can to keep things as normal as possible. That's what Lori and I agreed on."

"Where was the agreement for her to pay you for it then?"

"I'm fine," he chuckled.

Aaron let out a heavy sigh. He knew he wouldn't be able to persuade his brother to be mean to this woman that had treated him like shit for the past two years, but he didn't realize it would be such a task for him to ask her to treat him fairly, at least. "She lives in your house with the guy she cheated on you with, comes here and announces she's fucking pregnant, and you still can't muster an unkind word?"

Rick opened his mouth to say something, but Aaron was right – he had nothing. He just wasn't that kind of guy. "I mean… what's the point?"

"You'd feel better?"

"That's not what would make me feel better," he said, his voice going hoarse as he thought of Michonne. "I wish it were just as simple as hating her, but she's Carl's mother. I'd rather her be happy than the alternative."

"You're too good a man," he said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I can't believe we were raised by the same people."

"Not to sound like one of those haughty parent types, but when you have kids, you'll understand it. The drama," he shook his head. "...It's pointless. Nothing else really matters beyond your kid's happiness."

"Sounds like a good reason not to have kids," Aaron joked.

"No, you should," Rick nodded. "You two would be great parents."

"If we're half as good as you, I'd feel accomplished."

He smiled appreciatively and genuinely. It was the greatest compliment anyone could give him, especially in a moment where he was feeling particularly low and lost. "Thank you," he nodded again, reaching out to touch his brother's shoulder, his thumb sweetly caressing the back of his neck.

"But you still need to get Shane and Lori out of your house," Aaron said.

The two of them laughed before separating, Aaron anxious to get back to his food and his husband, while Rick stayed behind in the kitchen to finish what he came to do – sulk. He was relieved the party went on without him, and from the sink, he had a perfect view of everyone, eating and laughing as they were meant to do. He, on the other hand, turned away from the scene, and with a deep breath, allowed a couple of tears to fall. It wasn't a full cry, because he wasn't  _that_  upset, but enough to admit to himself that he was sad. Frustrated. Not just over Michonne, or Lori's news, or the fact that Aaron was right – if Shane and Lori wanted to shack up there, they  _should_  be paying him for it, and he was letting them take advantage of his kindness. But all of it combined. And then holidays were just generally a bit dreary anyway – especially since he and Lori were no longer together. It left him feeling melancholy. And he hadn't the first clue as to how he'd get over it.

* * *

The night went on, with dinner and dessert consumed, before guests dispersed around Rick's condo to do their own things – the kids played video games in Carl's room, while most of the adults did end up watching football, too full of food to engage in conversation or otherwise move. Another subset were playing cards at the clean end of the dinner table, while Rick and Daryl sat outside on the terrace, drinking his moonshine. It was quite warm for November – they could've eaten dinner outside, had anyone considered it – so the gentle breeze and the alcohol had a nice soothing effect on Rick.

"Was talkin' to Merle earlier this week," Daryl began to speak, his words a low murmur. "We were wonderin' when you were gonna be comin' back to work…"

Rick looked up from his mug, surprised to hear Daryl's voice. He was typically a man of few words, which was why Rick liked working with him; and more currently, it was why he'd chosen to sit out on the balcony with him. "Oh. Yeah," he replied, at a loss for a substantive answer. It was true – the time he spent at the shop had been cut to weekdays only, and even then, he was promptly gone by 3pm. "I guess I've been slacking off, huh?"

"Not like we mind the extra work," Daryl said. "Just wonderin' what you been so busy with."

"Tryin' to have a life," Rick smirked, taking another gulp of the clear liquid. "That's not to say I succeeded, but I've been tryin'."

"That's a good answer," he nodded. For a while there, all Rick did was work and take care of his kid, rinse and repeat. It made them a lot of money, but as someone who'd come to care about Rick over the years, it was sad to watch; knowing that he worked just to keep from thinking about anything else.

"I'll get back to it in the new year," Rick said with a long exhale. "I'm thinkin' about takin' Carl on a trip for Christmas."

"Disney World?" Daryl asked with the typical bite of playful sarcasm in his tone.

"I know you're joking, but I really was thinkin' about goin' to Disneyland in Paris."

"Shit," Daryl laughed, unaware such a thing even existed. "Really?"

"Does that sound ridiculous?"

"Nah, man, go for that shit. I didn't even know they had that there."

"I didn't either," Rick admitted. "When I was a kid, we never went further than Florida. But I want Carl to have more than that."

Daryl offered him an understanding nod. "So did you learn French while you were off havin' a life? Or how's that gonna work?"

Rick chuckled, though the smile quickly faded as he thought about Michonne for the umpteeenth time. He'd been pondering asking her along, not as his translator – though it didn't hurt that she was fluent in the language – but as sort of a romantic getaway kind of thing. It saddened him that that wouldn't happen now. "I'll figure it out," he said.

Daryl nodded again. He was relieved for his friend. After the bomb Lori dropped on the dinner table, he wasn't sure how the rest of the night would go. Not that he was never privy to all the details – he didn't even know Lori all that well – but it wasn't hard to figure out that something bad happened. Either she was in two relationships at once, or she moved on damn quick – either way, Rick had every right to be fucked up over it. Hence the working himself silly. So he hoped he'd found peace in some other way, in some other place. Seemed like he had.

Before the silence between them had a chance to take hold, there was a tapping on the terrace window, and the two men turned to see Tara on the other side of it. "We're leaving!" she yelled, ensuring she was heard through the glass. "Get in here!"

"Please excuse me," Rick chuckled, picking himself up from his chair. "And her."

"Nah, no worries," Daryl said, following suit. "I should get on outta here, too."

Rick knew he should've protested, as it was barely even 10:00, but really, he was ready to be alone. He'd successfully faked his way through the evening, but that was an exhausting endeavor. Forcing himself to smile through feeling like shit. No, he was ready to lie down and forget about the day.

So it was a relief when he headed inside and found nearly everyone else getting ready to leave, too; preparing their plates and exchanging hugs and kisses and phone numbers. Scott had a sleeping Enid slung over his shoulder, so he could guess that Carl was also in dreamland upstairs. Lori was wrapping up turkey, while Aaron and Ezekiel were in the kitchen, attempting to mitigate the chaos of it all. He went to join them, tiredly chuckling when he saw they'd barely made a dent in the mess.

"You guys are guests. You don't have to do this," he said as he walked in, in hopes of persuading them to give up.

"Nonsense," Aaron said, pulling another tupperware bowl from an overhead cabinet. "Su casa es mi casa."

"We really don't mind," Ezekiel agreed. "You've been an  _incredibly_  gracious host." He gave his husband a knowing look, both of them acknowledging the compliment as a thinly-veiled criticism of Lori.

"All right," Rick nodded, also catching the furtive glance between them. "I'm not gonna have this conversation again," he told Aaron.

"We didn't say anything," Aaron replied, feigning innocence.

"I look forward to the day you realize I'm not as dumb as you think I am," he chuckled.

Ezekiel laughed, too, understanding precisely how he felt. "It's not his fault that he thinks he's smarter than everyone else in the room."

"No, that's true," Rick sighed. "Our mother is the one who gave him that idea."

"Laura does love her baby boy," he agreed.

Aaron peered at his brother and husband, wanting to tell them both not to talk about his mom, but knew it would only add fuel to their fire. "Speaking of which, while we're here, we're gonna head out to Memphis and visit them," he announced. "I wanted to take Carl too, if it's all right with you."

Rick nodded, knowing Aaron wanted to take Carl as a buffer between himself and their father – a man who claimed to 'accept his lifestyle', but he was clearly uncomfortable with it, with him, with Zeke. It was why they never spoke much of their dad, and why Rick only spent time with their parents in small doses. Carl hadn't seen them since Easter, despite being only a few hours' drive away. "It'd be fine with me," he shrugged. "But weekends are Lori's, so you'd have to ask her."

"Ah, but I already did," he submitted proudly. Proving that he truly was a step ahead of everyone else. "So… if you're free, you're welcome to join us…"

"Road trip," Ezekiel appended with a pleading smile. "You deserve the break."

"You know seeing our parents is never a break," he smirked. Still, he pulled out his phone to check his schedule, though he was fairly certain there was nothing on it – as Daryl so shrewdly pointed out, he hadn't been doing much work as of late.

It was the first time all day he hadn't been looking for a message from Michonne, so of course, there it was, waiting for him. A missed call, just a few minutes prior, most likely as he was saying goodbyes. His heart practically leapt out of his chest. He didn't need to know why she was calling, and no longer cared that she didn't want to come for dinner. Seeing her name made him smile, and he wanted nothing more than to call her back. He would, as soon as they were gone.

"Should we take your non-answer as an answer?" Aaron asked, seeing him scrolling through his device. For someone who insisted on having a flip phone an entire decade past the invention of smartphones, he sure did seem addicted to his now, which was hilarious.

Rick hesitantly looked up from it, having forgotten the topic of discussion by then; but he forced himself to play it cool. "I'm fine," he said.

Ezekiel and Aaron laughed – obviously, he was no longer in that kitchen with them. "Maybe we should get out of his hair," Ezekiel suggested. "Looks like he's got a Thanksgiving booty call scheduled."

The three of them laughed heartily as Lori came marching into the kitchen with a turkey carcass on a platter and the mirth quickly came to a halt. Rick moved to allow her access to the open counter space, but he continued the conversation with his brothers. "I don't," he assured them, as much as he wished it were the case. "But I do wanna call my friend before it gets too late, and she's on east coast time."

"In Atlanta?" Ezekiel guessed, before receiving a covert pinch on the back of his arm from his husband. "Or… Raleigh? Charlotte? New York?"

Rick knew there was something off about the interaction, but opted not to comment – for one, he didn't care to share any details with Lori in the room, even if, by some miracle, she wasn't paying them any attention, and for two, he wasn't interested in prolonging the discussion. "No," he said simply.

"All right, well… maybe we'll see you Saturday," Aaron said, moving in to hug his brother. "Mom would love to see you."

"I'll think about it," Rick promised, planting a kiss on the side of Aaron's cheek. "Either way, I wanna see you two before you head home."

Ezekiel came next, pulling Rick into a short, tight embrace. "It's a date," he said. "Thank you again for having us, man."

"Stop thanking me," he shook his head, dismissing the formality.

While they went on to give Lori their hugs and kisses, Rick headed back out to the living room to see off the final few guests. He even managed to extend some form of well wishes to Shane as they were left waiting for the other three. He said it and he meant it, accepting that he was now tethered to this man for the rest of his life through Lori and Carl; there was no use fighting it. But there was certainly a palpable sense of relief when his home was finally emptied and quiet, even if it was a mess of dirty dishes, half empty alcohol bottles, and leftover food.

He went upstairs to check on Carl, unsurprised to find him asleep, but fully dressed atop his covers. Rick carefully pulled off his jeans and laid them in an open chair before properly tucking him in. He still had the remnants of fruit punch and peach cobbler around his mouth, which made him chuckle quietly as he kissed him goodnight. He hoped Carl had a good Thanksgiving, if no one else. He was the reason he'd invited Lori and Shane into his home without a second thought. So if his day was good, then it was all worth it.

He made a pit stop at his room to kick off his shoes – he'd been on his feet for so much of the day, he didn't realize how much they hurt until his bare soles touched the cool wood floors. Before he could make it back downstairs, there was a buzz at the door, and he thought surely one of his guests had forgotten their keys or their plate, something to that effect. He went to the security system to allow the caller back up, but he was instead met with the image of Michonne standing in his building's lobby. She had her head lowered, so he couldn't see her face, but unmistakably, it was her. Her hair, her jacket, her figure. He froze. As if he were seeing a ghost. He was so resigned to her rejection, he never imagined she'd actually show up. She rang the buzzer again, effectively jolting him from his trance, and he finally answered. "Hey," he said, causing her to look up to the speakerbox.

She smiled at the sound of his voice. "It's me," she said. Though in the way he said 'Hey,' she knew that he knew that already.

"The code is 9-0-6-4-2," he told her. "You're gonna come in, go to the elevator on your right, and put in that code. It's gonna take you to the second floor. 9-0-6-4-2."

"9-0-6-4-2," Michonne repeated, nodding. "Got it." She couldn't pretend she wasn't both impressed and confused by the posh property. When she saw Rick's address was 'Liberty Pike' in Franklin, TN, she wasn't sure what she'd be walking into. It sounded like somewhere she wouldn't be welcome – of course, so did most places in the south. Then she pulled up to some industrial looking building, and she thought surely she was in the wrong place until she spotted Rick's Silverado parked on the street. Now that she knew he had a private elevator entrance, all expectations were null.

She followed his very specific instructions, nervous as she made her way onto the lift, and sent Sasha a quick text to tell her she'd made it there safely. She knew she had no reason to be anxious – she'd been around Rick a hundred times now. This was just a different setting – which did add to her anxiety, she had to admit. Plus, their last interaction was a rather ugly argument, so she drove to Nashville without telling him, all while having no idea how she'd be received. It wasn't Friday yet, so she could guess Carl was here, and that was a whole other layer of nerves that needed addressing. On second thought, it made total sense that she was an apprehensive mess.

She took deep breaths throughout the short ride to the second floor, her eyes nearly popping out of her head when the lift gate opened to a beautiful, lavish, colorful apartment. She was again uncertain she was in the right place until she heard Rick's footsteps – recognizable, even in this foreign place – and soon enough, he was standing in front of her.

Her breath caught in her throat when she tried to speak, and as he took her in, he was at a loss for any meaningful words himself. He only pulled her out of the elevator and into his arms for a hug. He closed his eyes and held her close, cradling her head with his right hand as he inhaled the scent from her neck. He melted into her. Michonne closed her eyes too, relieved to know – to feel – that he wasn't still mad at her. She wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head against him, smiling at his aroma of alcohol and sweet potatoes.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me_  
_That thrills and delights me, oh no  
_ _It's just the nearness of you_

Soon enough, Rick was leading Michonne through a tour of his not-so-humble abode, Michonne marveling at each room for different reasons. The decor, the sheer size. His master bathroom was as big as his entire cabin back in Gatlinburg. When she talked to him on FaceTime, she typically only saw his headboard and didn't think much of it. But his home – his real home – was truly splendid. Vast and vibrant, with high ceilings and exposed pipes, gorgeous granite countertops and hardwood floors. Brightly colored furniture and walls. Fascinating paintings and unique fixtures. She could tell he'd also built a lot of the shelving and furniture, but she never would've guessed he had such sophisticated taste. And she could only imagine the price tag on this place. It seemed that Rick Grimes, with his two pairs of jeans and his flip phone and twenty-year-old truck, was actually rich as fuck.

"My brother did most of the decorating," he commented, seeming to read her mind as he guided her to the room he was certain she'd like the most – the library. "He said this was too nice a place to let me fuck it up, so I basically wrote him a blank check and let him have at it."

She nodded, wanting to seem unaffected, but inwardly, she was impressed by the flex. And her favorite part was knowing he wasn't doing it on purpose. This was just… how he lived. "He has good taste," she said.

"He does," Rick confirmed, smirking as he thought of Aaron and his quiet smugness. "Though I will say, I built all these myself," he said, gesturing into the room with its three walls made of shelves.

Michonne grinned as sh walked in. It wasn't a huge room – she could guess that it would've been a guest room in any other home – but it was filled with books from the ceiling to the floor, all color coordinated. There were two big leather chairs in the middle of the room, the color of Christmas trees, and a plush white and blue rug between them. The fourth wall was a window, overlooking the city of Nashville. Or Franklin? She didn't know. She didn't care. But it was a perfect room. She was only a guest, but could already picture herself cozied up in that room with some Chimamanda and a mug of tea on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Her heart skipped beats just thinking about it. Being happy there. "Your place is gorgeous," she said it as if it were fact. And it was.

She stepped further in to explore the titles on the shelves.  _The Road_  was the first book she noticed before her eyes settled on the shelf below it, full of framed pictures. Rick with his son. Rick with his son and a thin white woman with long, dark hair, whom she could only assume was Lori. His son with another white guy, the spitting image of Rick, with his curly brown hair and blue eyes – she had to look closer to make sure it wasn't just him at a younger age. "Your brother?" she guessed.

"Aaron," he confirmed with a nod, watching as she studied his life, wondering what she thought.

She skimmed the row of snapshots, most of them of his son, which was right on brand for Rick, until one particular photo at the end caught her eye. The picture had been taken in Rick's kitchen, it appeared – his brother, seated across from an attractive black man; light brown skin and long, graying locs, and a gorgeous, wide smile. She recognized him as a professor and author she'd recently begun following, but she couldn't piece together why he'd be sitting in Rick's kitchen. "How do you know Ezekiel King?" she asked.

"Brother in law," he smirked at her surprise.

"Shit." She turned back to the picture with the realization that she didn't really know much about his life. She'd insulated herself so much, she never even tried to imagine what it looked like outside of her. In being so desperate to avoid his son, she'd avoided him – his home, his family, his friends. And that said nothing of how isolated she'd been from her own life. She'd been living in a fantasy for the past four months, blocking out the real world. It was a hard pill to swallow, and precisely why she'd been so averse to coming there in the first place. But now that she was there, she had no choice but to.

Rick came to join her, guiding her through the names and faces of all the other pictures, and she listened, dutifully memorizing them in case she happened to come across his friends at some point. But as he spoke, and they made their way back toward the hallway, her attention was stolen by a room just across the landing. Even in the darkness, she could see the small figure covered by a cobalt blue bedspread, and she knew it was Carl. Her stomach dropped, but she was physically drawn to the room like a moth to a flame. She went and stood in the threshold, and just the sound of him drawing his soft breaths made her want to crumble. He was smaller than she expected, perhaps because he was curled into a sleeping position. His room was painted gray, like Anthony's. There was a rocking chair in the corner, like Anthony's. She exhaled quietly, as if she could expel the images she had of her own son's room. Carl had a desk beside his bed, with a Macbook sitting on top of it, and his own bookshelf across from it, and a telescope sat by the window. Was he into science? Had he made any more comic books? Would this have been what Anthony's room looked like in eight years? Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to push it all out of her mind, but it refused to leave. She could see it all so vividly. Tears burned her eyes and she knew she needed to reel it in – if Rick saw her, she'd have to explain…

"You can meet him in the morning," Rick said, noticing her looking. He appreciated her taking the interest, especially when she'd been so resistant to it. He knew she was probably still tentative – maybe it was why she arrived so late – but he couldn't pretend he wasn't excited that she'd finally get to meet his son.

Michonne took a deep breath, collecting her emotions before she turned back to Rick. Her tears fell, but she wiped them discreetly as she pretended to scratch her forehead. "Okay," she nodded.

"It'll be fine," he promised, nodding for her to follow him. "You're gonna love him as much as you do me."

She smiled, his smirk telling her that he was joking, but a part of her knew it was probably true. The fact that he made her smile so effortlessly was proof of that. Anything else was just her trying to fool herself.

* * *

"So who cooked all this food?" Michonne wondered. She stuffed a piece of cold turkey into her mouth before placing the remainder of it in the refrigerator. She and Rick had used the past hour to clean up, and from what she could tell, there'd been quite a few people in attendance. It was probably for the best that she'd missed it.

"Everyone did," he answered, also sneaking a few bites of the leftovers for himself. He'd opted for one of the pies – obviously Carl got the habit from somewhere. "It was a potluck kinda thing."

"What did Ezekiel bring?" she asked, still tickled that this man was part of Rick's family and she had no idea. She couldn't wait to tell Sasha.

"He made the collards," Rick said. "I think those are all gone, but he brought some cabbage too, if you're interested."

"I am," she admitted. Her Thanksgiving dinner consisted of a Big Mac and fries that were far too salty, as she'd managed to find an open McDonald's at a rest stop on her way. So she was looking forward to having turkey and dressing and everything else for breakfast.

"Come have some pie with me," he suggested, holding up a plate of Maggie's apple confection.

She enjoyed that he was trying to tempt her with sweets. He really did know the way to her heart. "Let me just get this washed," she said, taking the turkey pan to the sink.

"You better hurry up before I eat it all."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "So impatient," she sighed, going to join him. She happily accepted the fork and carved out a sample of the pie to take a bite. "Mmm," she moaned as the combination of apple and cinnamon and dough hit her tongue. "Yes."

"You're supposed to save that sound for me," he whispered, gazing at the side of her face.

"You don't taste like this," she shot back, smiling.

Amused, he briefly left their setup at the breakfast table and turned on some music to accompany their cleanup. He kept it low, of course, so as not to wake up Carl, but loud enough that they weren't working and eating in silence.

In the end, Rick was the one to wash the dishes, while Michonne enjoyed various desserts and strategically packed the refrigerator shelves with tupperware. His fridge was huge, but she liked making a puzzle out of the containers, deciding which foods would be accessed most. She tried to imagine what Carl would've liked, and put those on reachable shelves. She laughed at herself for how much thought she put into it, which made Rick laugh, too. And when she was done, she watched him as he worked, scrubbing and scraping at the dirty dishes. He was such the definition of the strong, silent type. She loved that about him. She loved him.

_It isn't your sweet conversation  
_ _That brings this sensation, oh no_

Without words, she set down her fork and pie and she joined him at the sink, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. She closed her eyes as she breathed him in for the second time that night, pressing her cheek against the soft denim of his shirt, and in that moment, she knew she'd made the right decision by coming there. In that moment, she felt she was exactly where she was supposed to be. "You're not just a distraction," she whispered against his back.

_It's just the nearness of you_

Rick swallowed down his emotions, and everything else about his shitty day, as he turned around to face her. He placed a gentle, sweet kiss over the top of her hair, the sweet aroma of almond and coconut filling his nose, and he rested his forehead against hers. He inhaled as she exhaled, and for a moment, for several beats, they breathed as one. And when he began to sway to the music, Ella Fitzgerald's rich, sultry voice filling the kitchen, they moved as one, too.

They danced for minutes that seemed like hours in one another's arms, because time seemed to stop when they were together. Michonne's lips found Rick's, allowing them to be her guide as they continued in circles around the kitchen, their tongues locked and lashing. He tasted better than the pie, and there was nothing more delectable than the way his lips sucked at hers. To think, she was almost willing to give this up. This feeling… This love.

_When you're in my arms_  
_And I feel you so close to me  
_ _All my wildest dreams come true_

Once the music faded and they realized the were simply moving to silence, Rick took Michonne's hand and led her back upstairs to his bedroom. It felt… odd to have her in his home, to truly let her in, knowing she never intended to be. This wasn't in anyone's plans, yet here they were. It felt odd in a good way, though – laying her on his bed, slipping her out of her pants, this was the familiar part. He planted another short and gentle kiss on her lips as she began to unbutton his shirt. "You have to be quiet here," he warned her, pulling back to gaze at her face.

She giggled. Quietly. She'd had a lot of time to think about this on her three-hour drive, what it meant for him to let her in; for her to  _want_ to be let in. But being quiet during sex might've been the one thing that hadn't crossed her mind. "I'm gonna try," she promised, grinning.

Rick smiled and then nodded. Those three words,  _I'm gonna try_. He realized that perhaps he'd been unfair to her. Maybe expected too much. Or wasn't patient enough. She did say, from the very start, she couldn't be in a relationship, but she often tried to be anyway. And he shouldn't have brushed that off as nothing. On a day like today, where he felt like he was drowning, and she simply showed up and made him feel better? It was everything. "That's all I can really ask, isn't it?"

_I need no soft lights to enchant me_  
_If you'll only grant me the right to hold you ever so tight  
_ _And to feel in the night, the nearness of you_

* * *

The following morning, Michonne awoke naked in Rick's bed – a scenario she was all too familiar with at this point in their relationship, yet the situation couldn't have felt more foreign. The sun was beaming past his sheer white curtains to brighten the already vivid turquoise room. His cabin in Gatlinburg was so dark – in a good way – and they lived amongst trees, where sunlight had to sneak through the forest to reach them. Even Rick's bed back there was simple, close to the floor; here, it sat high, with a colorful duvet that complemented the walls. She felt like she was in some stylish boutique hotel as opposed to her friend's home.

From the bed, she could see Rick in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. Preparing for his day. The day she would meet Carl. She sat up with a sigh and immediately laid back down, feeling like the very idea of his son was weighing her down. It had been another restless night for her, lying awake thinking about it. Because it was one thing to say she would do it – she used the three-hour drive to Nashville to steel herself for it, allowing that he could be the first person she saw when she arrived. But now that she was there, Rick's kid a mere few feet away, her resolve had been replaced by uncertainty.  _Was_  she actually ready to do this?

Rick strolled back into his bedroom, finding Michonne awake and alert, which made him smile. "Hey," he greeted her, his chipper mood obvious and infectious. He crawled across the bed to greet her with a kiss.

"Hi," she smiled back at him, tasting his cinnamony toothpaste. She gently stroked his back before he could pull away. "How long have you been up?"

"Maybe ten minutes," he shrugged, finding his underwear on the floor and slipping back into it. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a log," she lied, yawning for added effect. It wasn't a total untruth – after the way he put it on her, she was entirely knocked out for a good hour or two before her nerves awoke her. "Thanks to you," she added with a smirk.

Rick couldn't help himself from grinning smugly – not that it was exactly a surprise. Her inability to actually keep quiet as agreed told him everything he needed to know about his performance. "You're welcome."

"I shouldn't enjoy your cockiness as much as I do," she shook her head.

"I thought you were gonna say somethin' else there."

"Shut up," she giggled, snuggling amongst the pillows as she watched him continue around the room, picking up the remainder of their scattered clothing. There was a white leather chaise longue in the corner where he left them folded. He was always so neat, which she enjoyed.

"You didn't bring a bag or anything?" he asked, realizing she only seemed to have a pair of pants and a long-sleeved Henley in her possession.

"It's in the car," Michonne said. "I wasn't exactly sure how I'd be received," she reminded him. "I didn't wanna be so presumptuous as to come in with it."

He went to his dresser to find a t-shirt so that he could go retrieve it, knowing that she was probably aching to brush her teeth. "Always prepared," he commented, but he appreciated that about her.

_Oh, if only that were true_ , she thought. If it were, she wouldn't have a stomachache due to stress over meeting an eight-year-old. She was very much unprepared for that, actually. "Hey," she called out to him, sitting up in the bed again; her silly mood turning serious.

"Hey," he replied, turning back to her as he pulled on his shirt.

She paused before speaking, unsure what she even wanted to say. "I'm not… I'm not good with kids," she declared as a warning.

Rick chuckled and continued to get dressed. "That's shocking," he said sarcastically.

"I'm serious," she insisted, willing him to stop moving around and focus on her. He sauntered toward her and she waited for him to take a seat beside her before continuing. "I came here because you asked me to, not because I was ready. So please don't expect too much here."

He nodded, appreciating both her honesty and her apprehension. He leaned in to give her another short and sweet kiss to say as much. "Can I tell him you're my girlfriend?"

She inhaled and exhaled sharply, but she did recognize that this was all part of the package. If she wanted Rick, she wanted his son, and everything that came with it. It meant she couldn't hide anymore. "It's best to be honest, right?"

He grinned, pleasantly surprised by her response. "I'm gonna go get your stuff," he said, hopping back up to find her keys in her jeans. "We'll take showers and get dressed, you can meet Carl over breakfast… We'll take it slow."

"Okay," she nodded, offering a sheepish smile as he quietly left the room. He was so gentle and sweet; she still had trouble believing she deserved his kindness. But today would simply be another new experience – like moving to Tennessee or her first day of classes, with both of those ventures having turned out okay for her. It would be fine. She'd take it slow, and it would be fine.

With Rick gone, Michonne finally rolled out of bed and headed into the bathroom to get started on her shower while she awaited her toothbrush and clothes. She took her time though, exploring the full size and scope of the bathroom now that she had the opportunity. The two sinks made her innately smile as she considered the idea that one could be hers at some point in the distant future. It also made her think of Negan and the home she left behind and her smile faded. She instead went through Rick's things, noting how little of the broad counter space he actually used. His toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. Shaving supplies. Soap, deodorant, and some q-tips. She adored how simple he was. And she didn't mean that pompously, but in the way that it didn't take much to make him happy, she admired it.

In her exploration, she debated taking a bath instead – the tub sat just behind the vanity, a deep rectangular basin, big enough for Rick to join her if they wanted. She was running her fingers along the gold-plated faucet when there was a knock at the bedroom door, and she froze in place.

"Dad?" a little voice called out. It was somehow confident and commanding, though, as if he knew his father was in there and should've been up by then.

Michonne told herself not to move or even breathe too hard.  _Be cool and he'll go on his way soon_. Wouldn't he? But if he didn't, she was standing butt naked in the middle of the bathroom with no cover.  _Shit_. She quickly but carefully tiptoed into the bedroom to retrieve last night's clothes, inwardly cursing Rick for leaving them clear on the other side of this giant space, and then made her way back into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her, just as he knocked again.

"Dad, are you up?" Carl asked, concerned now.

Stumbling into her underwear as she moved toward the shower, she desperately hoped the kid would just assume his father was still asleep and let it go, but no. Seconds later, she heard his little footsteps in the bedroom, and he was knocking on the closed bathroom door.  _Fuck_.

"Dad are you gonna make breakfast or do I have to eat cereal?" he asked through the door.

She had no intention of answering, figuring – or rather, hoping – Rick would show up and get his son before she had to reveal herself. But when Carl tried the door, finding it locked, she knew she would have to either give him some type of response or leave this child thinking his father was possibly in danger in this bathroom. "Your dad… went downstairs for a minute," she spoke from behind the door. "He'll be right back."

Carl paused, confused by the female voice on the other side of the door. It didn't belong to anyone he knew. "Michonne?" he asked, taking an educated guess.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the awkwardness of it all making her wish she could disappear. She nodded as if he could see her, before eventually replying, "...Yes."

"I'm Carl," he answered brightly.

She smiled in reply. She could already tell he was sweet. Like his father. "...Hi."

"Are you okay?" he asked. He was perplexed by the fact that a door was still between them.

"...Yeah," she said. She fumbled to get back into the rest of her clothes without making too much obvious noise, and soon enough, with a big deep breath, she opened the door. "Hi," she said again, offering a strained smile.

Carl waved at her with a big, genuine grin on his face. "Do you live here now?"

Michonne laughed, the innocence of his question managing to immediately disarm her. He was quite cute, his wide smile a mixture of milk and permanent teeth. She was surprised to see his hair in this particular cut – tapered on the sides, the top of his hair obviously styled, it not a bit of a mess after a night of sleep. In all the pictures she'd seen, he had one of those old school bowl cuts. Perhaps if she'd paid more attention before now, she would've been less confused. He was very much a mixture of his parents, where he favored Lori – based on her limited knowledge of what the woman looked like, anyway – but he had Rick's eyes. God, she wished she remembered what Anthony looked like.

"No, I'm just visiting," she answered him politely. She was wary of being cold toward him, but she also didn't want to be too warm, for fear of him getting too comfortable.

"Cool," he nodded, accepting the simple answer. "You wanna see my room?"

She chuckled again, finding the random request amusing, while also knowing she couldn't decline. "...Sure."

As Carl led her through his dad's bedroom and across the hall to his own, Rick was coming up the steps – just in time to witness the surprising scene, and he wondered what the hell happened in the five minutes he was gone. He and Michonne exchanged glances as she passed and he gave her an appreciative but bemused smile, knowing this wasn't in her plan – undoubtedly, Carl had persuaded her into whatever they were off to do, but she seemed to be rolling with it. Rick dropped off her bag at his door and went to join them, but kept a short distance, watching from the hallway.

"So have you seen  _Ragnarok_?" Carl asked his guest as she took a look through his telescope.

Michonne turned back to him, thinking he was referring to a star or perhaps a lunar crater she was unfamiliar with, but she thought better of jumping to that conclusion. "I haven't," she admitted, wincing; hating to admit that she wasn't entirely sure what it was. Without a TV as of late, she was nowhere near as up on pop culture as she'd been a few months ago. And now she was going to sound pathetically uncool in front of her boyfriend's son. She used the superhero theme of his room to wrack her brain and take a guess. "Is that Thor?" she asked.

"Yep," Carl nodded, though he was concerned that she obviously didn't know for sure. "Have you seen  _Justice League_?" he asked, his eyes narrowed on her. He was going to be disappointed if she had.

"Is that Batman?"

Carl looked to his father then, as if to ask,  _who is this uncultured woman you've brought into our home?_  "Okay…" He clearly needed to go back to basics with this one. "Do you know the difference between Marvel and DC?"

"I do!" she promised with a laugh, excited to rattle off her knowledge before Carl could give up on her. "Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America, those are Marvel, and then Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman are DC."

"Thank god," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"In this house, we only like Marvel," Rick explained before Carl could put Michonne through her paces. "So long as you know who's on our side, you should be all right."

"Noted," she nodded.

"So are you Team Cap?" Carl went on to ask. "Or Team Iron Man?"

Michonne was glad she was familiar with those two characters, at least, but still, she looked to Rick to save her, nervous to get the answer wrong. Her life had been reduced to trying to impress an eight-year-old. "I like Black Panther," she said with a proud grin, thinking Carl would be somewhat impressed that she knew of the character.

"I'll take that," he nodded coolly – not quite the reaction she'd been looking for.

"Well who do you like?" she wondered. Her only hope now was that her curiosity could compensate for her lack of knowledge.

There was a replica of Captain America's shield hanging over his bed, so his answer seemed obvious. But she was still learning, it seemed, so he threw her a bone. "Steve Rogers is my favorite," he said, gesturing to the wall in question. "That's his."

"Even after the last movie?" she said. "I thought Tony said he didn't deserve it."

Carl smirked at the question, impressed – at least a little – that she had that in her arsenal. "That's true," he granted. "We don't know what's gonna happen yet, but yeah, he might not get it back."

She smiled, knowing she'd caught him off guard. "And why is Steve Rogers your favorite?" she asked.

He took a moment to answer, trying to think of a simple way to sum it up. In the past three years, he and Enid had consumed everything they could about the universe, and had a million thoughts about every character, especially Cap – a character he took to immediately. But the many reasons he loved him so much actually came down to a fairly simple one. "He reminds me of my dad," he said.

She grinned at his answer. He was thoughtful. Like his father. She glanced to Rick, her smile not fading, and she was unsurprised that his son would think of him as a superhero. "Well then," she said, her attention back on Carl, "I guess he's my favorite, too."

* * *

A few hours later, Rick, Michonne, and Carl were sitting down to lunch in front of an assortment of leftovers from the night before, which Michonne couldn't wait to dive into. But Carl was more interested in getting to know his dad's friend and what she was all about. Despite their somewhat rocky start, he'd decided that she was cool. No, she didn't know MCU or Fortnite or karate like Shane, but she was smart and honest and gave him her undivided attention. He spent breakfast educating her on all the different Avengers and why the DC characters couldn't compare, and she asked questions and took actual notes. He  _really_  liked that. And Rick sat by her side through it all, both excited and relieved by how she took it all in stride. After he told her they would take it slow, Carl barely gave her time to catch her breath before moving from one subject to the next. But in the end, maybe being thrown into the deep end was the best thing for her. She didn't have a chance to be scared by it.

"All right, so here's the deal," Michonne was saying as she stuffed her mouth with dressing. "I'll answer one question at a time, in exchange for one forkful of vegetables."

Carl looked at his plate with small portions of cabbage, Brussels sprouts, and corn pudding, and he figured he could take that offer. "Do sweet potatoes count?" he wondered. He knew they were technically a vegetable, but they were more like a dessert to him. It felt like cheating.

"Of course," she grinned. "But your fork has to be  _full_."

Rick looked on, in love with how natural she was with Carl. She treated him like an equal, which a lot of adults had trouble adjusting to. But there was an ease to their conversation because she seemed to instinctively know not to talk to him like a little kid. He just hoped she knew what she was getting herself into here. Carl's inquisitiveness truly knew no bounds, and she might've need to instate a rule where she could pass on a question. "What happens if you don't wanna answer somethin'?" he asked.

She looked at Carl, the two of them shrugging in unison as if they'd discussed it beforehand. "That's not the deal," she decided. "If he eats, I have to answer."

"All right…" Rick granted, leaving her to it.

"Okay," Carl said, already picking his first vegetable. He hated Brussels sprouts the most, so he started with them, and decided that he would start off easy, curious about her life before she ended up in his house. "Where are you from, Michonne?"

She smiled as she took another bite of her own food, thankful the first question was a softball. "I was born in this tiny town in Iowa. Grinnell," she said. "And… I went to college in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and then moved to Atlanta. So I guess I'm kinda from all three places."

"Cool," he nodded. He went for a bite of sweet potato next, to rid the taste of the vegetable before it. "What's your favorite color?"

"Yellow."

"What's your favorite sport?"

"To play?" she said. "I love swimming. To watch, definitely tennis."

"How old are you?" Carl questioned as he inhaled a big bite of cabbage.

Rick had every intention of letting them play while he simply listened and ate, but he had to interject there. "Carl, it's impolite to ask that."

"It's fine," Michonne chuckled. "I turned 36 a couple of months ago," she revealed. She couldn't even remember if she'd told Rick her age, but for Carl, it was fine. "Your dad is right, though, you shouldn't go around asking people their age. Always let them tell you."

"Why?" he wondered, looking to both of them to answer. In school, everyone knew everyone's exact age and birthday. It was basically expected.

"As you get older, aging becomes a much more sensitive topic," Rick explained. "Some people don't like to talk about it, so it's best to assume everyone doesn't."

Michonne smiled at his quick and considerate answer. "I'm not really looking forward to turning forty," she admitted.

"My dad is forty," he replied animatedly. "He didn't really like it either."

"You'll see when you get to be my age," Rick smirked, reaching across the small table to wipe sweet potato from the corner of his mouth.

"When I'm forty, you'll be seventy-two," Carl noted, pleased with himself for his quick calculating.

Michonne was impressed by it, too; and suddenly hopeful that he might be into numbers – then they'd really have something to talk about. "Do you like math?" she asked, trying not to sound too excited by the prospect.

Carl shrugged, not really having any feelings on the subject one way or another. "Art class is my favorite."

"Your dad showed me your comic," she revealed, her mind reverting back to that first night she spent with Rick. So scared to let him in, she had to drink to get through it. What a difference four months made. "I've read it a couple of times, always wishing there was more."

"Oh, yeah," he replied as if he'd just remembered the project at her mentioning. "I have a few more upstairs I can show you, but I ended that series, and now I'm working on something new. But it's a secret right now."

"Oh, well excuse me," she laughed. "Why'd you end  _Robot Rabbit_?"

"Because he saved the world," Carl said simply. "There was nowhere else to go with it."

"Umm, you couldn't give me a spoiler alert?" she teased – though she really would've preferred to read the ending on her own. "So do the other issues give backstory on why he has only one eye?" she asked.

"Of course," he frowned. "What I did was I went backwards and made the origin story the last issue," he explained. "But it's all there."

She didn't want to patronize him by expressing her awe, but for that narrative structure to come out of an eight-year-old mind was pretty remarkable. "Would you consider selling it to me?" she asked. "I need some new stuff to read and it would be great to have with me in Gatlinburg."

Carl lit up at the idea of having an actual customer for his comic. "Really?"

"Just tell me how much."

He looked to his father for approval and assistance in setting the price. He knew how much regular comics cost – he received an allowance of $5.00 a week, which didn't get him very far in the comic book store – but he still hadn't exactly learned the value of those amounts just yet. "What's a good price, Dad?"

"Well," Rick smiled at Michonne, appreciative of her for taking on this interest. "You do all the writing and drawing yourself, so I think it's worth a bit more than your average comic. So I'd say about five dollars per issue?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Michonne cut in. "I would be getting his only copies. That he worked so hard on. I think was thinking more like twenty bucks an issue."

Carl nearly fell out of his chair. That was so many weeks' worth of allowance, he couldn't even compute it fast enough. "That's a hundred dollars!"

Michonne and Rick laughed, and she hoped he didn't mind her giving that much money to his son. But she really did see and appreciate the value in his work, and wanted him to be rewarded for it. "Is that good?"

"That's more than good," Rick said. "We're gonna put half of it in your savings," he told Carl, his tone turning stern. "The rest of it, you can do whatever you want with it."

"Yes, sir."

Michonne smirked at their exchange, enjoying seeing Rick in authoritative dad mode, making her involuntarily cross her legs. They then went back to their game before their food could get cold, and Carl went through more of the generic getting-to-know-you questions that anyone would ask upon first meeting someone. Her favorite television show – Game of Thrones; whether she used social media – she had Facebook and Instagram, but only used them sporadically. He asked about her job, and she kept the explanation simple by saying she used math to research different diseases. He asked her favorite song, and the truthful answer was Al Jarreau's version of "Look to the Rainbow"; but for the sake of not boring Carl, she also picked a current favorite that he'd probably recognize – Bruno Mars' "That's What I Like." He proceeded to tell her that he liked Bruno Mars too, because of course. But all in all, the questions were simple, sweet, easy. So she should've known that one would eventually come and throw her for a loop. It did, in the form of a twofer, as he gobbled up the last of his cabbage.

"So do you have any kids?" Carl asked evenly, as he had no way of knowing the subject was her Achilles' heel. "And were you married before you met my dad?"

Michonne felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, and she had to take a deep breath as she was suddenly forced to think about her past life. Carl had her mind so filled with superheroes and silliness, Anthony hadn't crossed her mind in hours – much to her surprise – and now, she was struggling not to say his name out loud. She swallowed hard and visibly before quietly answering, "No."

"No to both questions?" Carl pressed, oblivious to her turmoil.

"No to both," she confirmed.

Meanwhile, Rick certainly did take notice of the way she'd struggled to answer him. And only those two questions, as every other reply seemed to roll off her tongue, or she'd at least have a laugh with Carl while she searched for a witty response. This one had rendered her speechless, and at this point, he had a few guesses why.

"Do you want to?" Carl asked, eagerly continuing their game.

Michonne inhaled again, the word 'no' sitting on her lips, but she exhaled with the realization that his plate was empty.  _Thank god_. "You're out of questions," she informed him, smiling with relief.

"Oh man," he exclaimed, sitting back in his chair with a groan.

Rick laughed, also relieved for her sake. "It's gettin' late anyway," he said, checking his watch to see it was almost 2:00. "You should get upstairs and pack for your trip."

"Can Michonne help me?"

"Well, that would be up to her," he said, nodding for him to ask her directly.

Carl immediately turned to Michonne. "I know I'm out of veggies, so I probably can't even ask this. But would you be okay with helping me pack?"

She laughed at him and his quick wit, enjoying that he anticipated her response before she could give it. "We can finish the game while you pack," she agreed. The two of them quickly descended from the the high-top table, all too happy to leave Rick to clean up after them. But before they could disappear, Michonne left him with a small smile and another one of those looks – one that said,  _thank you for trusting your son with me_. Because after the way she'd acted, she would've understood him being cautious, worried about what she might say. But no, he gave her free reign to be with Carl however she needed. And that meant something.

"So how does the game go now?" Carl asked once they made it up to his room. First thing he did was go to his closet to pull out his overnight bag, throwing it on his bed with a sigh, as if he were already exhausted by the task at hand.

"How about... you get a question for every item you put into your bag?" Michonne suggested.

"I like it." Carl used that opportunity to make a run for his bathroom and grab his toothbrush. He dropped it into the bag on its own and then looked at Michonne expectantly, waiting for her to tell him that didn't count as an item.

"That's how you pack?" she asked instead, chuckling.

"Yeah," he shrugged.

"You don't have a case for your toothbrush?"

"Oh. Yeah." He ran back into the bathroom and found it in the cabinet beneath the sink. He handed it over to Michonne so that she could correctly assemble it, then watched her place it in a side pocket of the bag.

"Where's your toothpaste?" she asked.

He sighed. "You could've told me that before I went back in there," he said, dashing back to the room for what he hoped would be the final time. When he returned, he placed it in the side pocket along with his toothbrush. "Does this mean I get two questions now?"

"No," she grinned.

"Fine," he said. "Do you wanna get married?"

"Goddamn it," Michonne mumbled, scratching her face. She should've seen that coming a mile away, yet the question managed to surprise her again.

"My dad does," Carl went on to say. "I mean, I think he does."

"If it happens, it would be a long way off," she told him as diplomatically as she could. "We're talking…  _years_  down the road." She was barely even in a relationship with Rick – of course she couldn't tell Carl that – so it was quite difficult to wrap her head around even discussing marriage with Rick, especially when she was just engaged to someone else less than a year ago. Less than half a year ago. It was too much.

"Well my mom hasn't been with her boyfriend that long, and they're having a baby," he said. "So it doesn't  _have_  to be years down the road. Right?"

She paused at that revelation, on the one hand wondering whether Carl even knew what he was talking about. He was an insanely smart child, so in all likelihood, he did. But if so, did Rick know? Was it why he'd been so adamant about defining their relationship? And if he didn't know, how would he take it when he found out? Would she have to console him? Because she wasn't good at that. She wasn't good at any of this. "I, umm… I dunno, Carl," she admitted, feeling flustered suddenly. "This is a conversation me and your dad would need to have first," she said. "But it would still be pretty far into the future."

Carl was disappointed by that answer, but he supposed he didn't have any choice but to accept it. "Okay." He went to his dresser and pulled out his favorite t-shirts and a few long-sleeved plaid shirts from the drawers.

"What else you got?" she asked, watching him stuff his bag with far too much for a one-night trip.

"Ummmm. Who's your best friend?" he asked.

"Her name is Sasha," she answered, smiling as she thought of her. "We met in college and she lives in Atlanta, and I miss her like crazy."

"She can't come visit you?"

"She just hasn't yet," she shrugged.

"Do you wanna come to Memphis with us?" he asked excitedly, the idea suddenly popping into his head.

Michonne's eyes went wide at the mere notion of meeting Rick's parents. She was barely surviving her interactions with Carl, and now he was talking about meeting the next two most important people in his life? She liked that he wanted her to come – maybe it meant she hadn't totally failed in her mission – but no, this was more than enough for one weekend. "I think… maybe we should wait on that," she said, smiling warmly at him. As he opened his mouth to reply, she was quick to cut him off, "And no, I don't mean for Christmas." He laughed and so did she. They understood each other.

"I like you, Michonne," Carl said plainly, but genuinely. "I think we're gonna get along well."

She grinned back at him, delighted, relieved, feeling as though she'd passed some sort of test. But then, ostensibly, this  _was_  a test. If Carl didn't like her, or vice versa, there was no way Rick would've continued the relationship. So the reassurance she felt was apropos – especially when it was only a month ago, she didn't even want to acknowledge this kid's existence. "I like you, too," she said quietly. But genuinely.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Rick was finishing up the cleanup from lunch when the elevator rang to inform him of new visitors on their way up. And as he finished wiping down the table and countertops, he could hear his brother and brother-in-law entering the apartment, the two of them mid-conversation. "You're early," he called out to them from the kitchen.

"Well Mom wants us there by dinnertime, so we need to get on the road," Aaron said as he joined his brother. He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning for the refrigerator to find food. "Is Carl not ready yet?"

"He's upstairs packing right now," Rick replied as Ezekiel walked in and he turned to face them both. "You two have a good night?"

"We did," Ezekiel confirmed with a nod. "We went downtown, did a bar crawl. Listened to some music…"

"Met a really nice couple from Boston," Aaron added, chewing on cold fried chicken. "The Lori news didn't keep you up all night, did it?"

Rick chuckled as he reached for the sink to find a plate for Aaron. "I honestly didn't even think about it after y'all left," he said. And it was the truth – after Michonne arrived, it was the furthest thing from his mind.

When Rick turned back to them, the two spouses shared another one of their secretive looks that said everything and nothing, and it didn't take much for them to figure out why Lori wasn't on his mind. "What's on your neck?" Ezekiel asked with a knowing smirk.

"What?" Rick wondered, instinctively touching his throat and then feeling the sides of his neck for crumbs or maybe toothpaste, but he felt nothing.

Amused, Aaron approached his brother again and pointed to a small pink blotch just above his collarbone. "You run into a door?" he teased.

Frowning, Rick went to the refrigerator in hopes of using the reflective surface to see what they were talking about. Indeed, he could make out a light bruise in the shape of Michonne's lips, and he immediately recalled how she'd used his neck in an attempt to keep herself quiet last night. Of course he had a hickey. His face immediately flushed so that it matched the contusion. "You guys are assholes," he chuckled.

"So you did have a booty call last night," Ezekiel grinned. "Here I thought we were joking."

"That's not what it was," he denied, unwilling to reduce Michonne to just that. "My friend... came to surprise me."

"Your  _friend_?" Aaron asked.

"My girlfriend," he admitted, his shy smile widening as the words came out. He hadn't gotten the chance to explain it all to Carl, so this was his first time introducing her as such. He liked the way it sounded out loud. "Michonne."

"Michonne," Ezekiel repeated as if he hadn't heard the name before. "You know I love a good 'ethnic' name."

"How long has this been going on?" Aaron asked.

"Not long at all," Rick said. "She  _just_  met Carl today."

The two of them gasped, figuring it had to be fairly serious if he'd allowed her to meet Carl. "Dude," Aaron chirped happily.

"Don't be weird," Rick warned them, mainly eyeing his brother. "She's not the most sociable person, so don't go into this expectin' a lot."

"We get to meet her?" Ezekiel gasped again.

"What did I just say," Rick scolded him.

"I'm gonna be cool," he promised. "We're just excited to hear you found someone."

"We can do quiet, shy, whatever. As long as she's not another Lori, I'm sure we'll love her," Aaron said.

Rick sighed, quietly questioning whether this was even a good idea. Meeting Carl was already a lot for her, and now he was throwing her to his crazy brothers. "Just… don't scare her," he said, already on his way out of the kitchen to head upstairs.

When he arrived to Carl's room, he was pleasantly surprised to find a neatly packed bag sitting on his bed, his Nintendo placed on top of it, while Michonne and Carl were out on the balcony. He smiled at the fact that they looked like two old friends catching up, perched at Carl's table, laughing their heads off. He hated to interrupt.

"Hey, you two," he called from inside.

They both looked at him as though they were surprised to see him. "Hey, Dad!" Carl waved for him to come join them.

"I hate to break up the party, but your uncles are here," he told Carl. "You all ready to go?"

"I even remembered underwear this time," he confirmed, hopping up from the table ahead of his companion.

"More like  _I_  remembered," Michonne smirked, following behind him. She ran her hand across Rick's chest as she passed him on the way inside, happy to know that they'd be alone soon. As well as she'd navigated through the morning with Carl, she was exhausted from the unending discourse. She missed the quiet that came with being alone with Rick.

"You okay?" he asked softly, taking hold of her hand before she could get too far.

She waited for Carl to gather his things and scurry off before answering, "I'm good." She smiled, tenderly touching her lips to his for a short kiss that said the same. "I feel a bit out of place, but not in a bad way. Necessarily."

"You'll get used to this," he promised. "Like you got used to me."

"Verdict's still out on that," she teased.

"I told them you're my girlfriend," he revealed cautiously. "They wanna meet you."

A shaky exhale fell from her lips before she could respond. "Okay," she nodded, tightening her grip on his hand. And as they headed downstairs and she could hear the strangers' voices getting closer, her palms turned clammy and she was fully squeezing Rick's hand. But as they turned into the living room and the two men came into view, she let him go and turned on her charm – which was to say, she became the version of herself that existed before. "Well hello!" she declared, drawing their attention.

Aaron and Ezekiel returned her enthusiasm, practically running across the room to greet her with hugs and kisses, as if they'd known each other for years. If this woman was supposed to be reserved, they saw no evidence of it. She was friendly and downright charismatic as she used her command of the French language to marvel over how attractive their family was; and they'd fallen in love at first sight with this woman and her perfect brown skin and thick, flowing locs – not unlike Ezekiel's. Michonne even made the joke about Rick and Aaron obviously having similar taste, leaving all four of them laughing heartily – much to Carl's confusion, as he sat quietly observing.

"Ezekiel, I hope it's not improper to say this," she started to tell her new acquaintance, "but I'm such a big fan of yours."

"Oh," he replied, genuinely surprised to hear it, "thank you. Wow."

"And it's not because of Rick," she made sure to say. "He didn't even bother to tell me he knew you. No, I've been a fan since my best friend recommended your book on the queer figures of the civil rights movement, which was so well done. And I just started consuming everything I could find of yours. The essay about Recy Taylor…" She was shaking her head, unable to find words that accurately described how moved she was when she read it. "I just - I truly love your work."

"So you're just gonna show up and make me cry the very first time we meet, huh?"

"Oh, please," she giggled. "I know you hear this all the time."

"No, I really, really appreciate that. I'm just trying to make a difference where I can, you know?"

Aaron was smiling proudly at the exchange, even if only because it was a nice change of pace for Rick to have a partner that would get along well with his. Lori tried, she did, but she just didn't have the range. "So… now's probably a good time to admit that we googled you before this," he confessed, grimacing as he braced for her reaction.

Baffled, Rick's eyebrows furrowed as he asked, "How?"

"Your kid talks a lot," he said.

"It's fine," Michonne shook her head, the four of them laughing once more. "I look pretty impressive on Google. You glean nothing of my actual personality until you meet me, and by then it's too late."

Aaron couldn't stop smiling at her. She seemed fun. Funny. He suddenly didn't want to go to Memphis, just so he could spend more time with her. "God, where have you been all our lives," he joked.

"Waiting for this one, it would seem," she said, pointing to Rick. She grinned when he began to blush. He was so cute sometimes.

"You better keep her," Aaron told his brother seriously. He was so relieved and happy to see that Rick found someone who genuinely, actively liked him. Enough to give him hickeys and also engage with his family so effortlessly from the very start.

"That's my plan," Rick nodded, his face still a sheepish shade of pink as he gazed at Michonne. He never expected that he'd be the awkward one here.

"We should leave you two alone," Ezekiel said, taking note of the looks they were sharing. He was quite familiar with those, after all.

"Yes, yes, we need to get on the road," Aaron agreed. "Carl, are you ready?"

"I've been ready for like a million minutes," he sighed, pulling himself and his bag up from the couch.

"Just get over here and gimme a hug," Rick chuckled.

He was happy to do as told, wrapping his arms around his dad before feeling him kiss the top of his head. "Please don't eat all the pie while I'm gone," he said.

"You be good," Rick laughed again, ignoring his request.

Carl then moved onto Michonne, offering her an identical embrace as he said, "I had fun with you today."

She closed her eyes, the unexpected contact taking her by surprise, and she had to will herself not to fall apart. Deep breaths. When she was pregnant, she liked to think about what hugs from her son would one day feel like. She often pictured a scene just like this, usually before he went off to school, him lovingly attaching himself to her. Carl was a little older than the child she imagined, but the sentiment was quite the same, leaving her melting at the memories she didn't even have. It took her several beats for her to climb out of her spiraling feelings, but she did, and sweetly cupped the back of Carl's head, finally accepting his hug. "Me, too," she said.

* * *

"Stop it, you're eating too much."

"I'm not eating too much," Rick laughed as he took in another scoop of pie. "You've had most of it."

"I've only had like three bites," Michonne contested. "Three little bites, at that."

"That's a lie, but I can go get some more if you want."

"No, I don't want you to move," she said, running her hand along his bare back. They were so wonderfully comfortable sitting there in his bed, in their underwear, her straddling his lap as they shared sweet potato pie and ice cream. She wanted to stay exactly like this for as long as possible.

"Well then you gotta learn to share," he said, grinning at her playfully. He cut another spoonful of pie for her, taking care to add a dollop of the homemade vanilla ice cream along with it, and he fed it to her; watching as her lips and tongue pulled the dessert from the spoon. "Maybe the problem is we didn't get a big enough piece."

Michonne didn't say anything but kept her eyes on him as he took another scoop for himself, the gentle clang of the silverware against the ceramic bowl making her feel strangely comfortable in the moment. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied, his mouth full.

She smiled at the ice cream left on his lips and the way he licked it off before she spoke. "Thank you for letting me into your real life," she said.

He nodded, the solemness of her tone throwing him for a loop. He wanted to say that he looked forward to her returning the favor, but he decided not to push. It certainly struck him, the way she grappled with Carl's questions about marriage and children earlier. Was that unease about Negan? Was he not as good to her as she claimed? The way she avoided whoever this man was, Rick did wonder whether he was abusive in some way. Was he why she'd been so timid about sex? But her initial objection to meeting Carl made him think it was something else. A miscarriage, perhaps a lost custody battle. Maybe all of it combined. But she obviously wasn't ready to speak on it yet, so he wouldn't make her. Not now. So he kissed her instead. A quick one, but potent enough to taste the ice cream on her tongue, noting the way the flavor of it managed to change inside her mouth. "I should be thankin' you," he said as they pulled apart. As he began to prepare another spoonful of the dessert, her silence spoke volumes. She seemed suddenly pensive. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Being here with you…" She spoke slowly and deliberately while her eyes stayed on Rick's moving hands. "...I've realized I need to go back to my real life, too."

He looked up, his disappointment palpable. "What?"

"I need to go see my family," she said. "My friends. For Christmas, I think that's what I should do."

"And then you'll be back?" he asked. He hoped.

"Of course," she grinned at him. She reached out to brush his curls from his face and rubbed her thumb against the top of his cheek, feeling as if he needed the affection. She hated how scared he was that she would hurt him. She hated how scared she was of the same. Falling in love with him, inserting herself into his life, all of it was so unexpected. She wasn't ready for any of it; she was doing it anyway, because she knew a good thing when she saw it. But she knew herself – her new self – well enough to be concerned. God knows she didn't want to hurt him. But she knew she had the power to, and that was dangerous.

He nodded, kissing her open palm. "I think that's a good idea then," he said. "I'm gonna take Carl to Paris for Christmas, and I was gonna ask you to come. But I think this is probably a better idea."

Michonne pulled back in genuine surprise, the idea of going on vacation with just Rick and his son terrifying her. But she quickly recovered, smirking as she let her thumb fall to his wet bottom lip. "You think Iowa is better than Paris?" He laughed, which made her smile until she was laughing too. She used the moment of distraction to steal another piece of pie, and they laughed even harder when Rick hit her hand with the spoon. "Stop hoarding it!" she giggled.

"Stop eatin' it all then," he retorted.

Michonne happily finished the bite of her food, staring at him and his twinkling blue eyes until they both sobered. "But no, I don't think I'm ready for that yet," she said seriously.

"No," he agreed. "I think it's a big deal that you're ready to go back."

She nodded, appreciating how supportive he was, even as she was essentially rejecting him.

"Are you gonna see him?" he asked quietly. There was a nervousness to his question that he'd tried and failed to hide.

She replied with a sympathetic smile, again, understanding how scared he was. "I don't think I'm ready for that either," she said, shaking her head.

Rick nodded back, relieved, even as he wondered if it was true. But he was happy to leave it at that, and assembled the final spoon of pie and melting ice cream for her, holding it to her lips. They grinned at one another as she was in rush to take the bite, and before they knew it, droplets of the milk had fallen to her chest. He took it upon himself to lick the white beads from her cleavage, which made her laugh harder, his hot tongue tickling her skin. "I'm glad we have another month before you leave," he said from between her breasts.

As he came up for air, she gave him another brief kiss, sucking lightly on his tongue and licking at his lips before pulling back. "I am, too," she whispered. She took the dessert from him, whisking the spoon in the liquid and then held it over her chest, drizzling herself and her tank top in melted ice cream – a familiar sight, given they hadn't used condoms since she arrived.

"You're makin' a mess," Rick commented, though he was already licking his lips.

"Oops," she said, an uncontainable devilish grin claiming her face. She giggled again as his lips dove for her chest, sucking her tits out of her top before she could get the bowl out of their way. And in one deft move, he had her on her back, his hands hungrily groping her ass as he continued to suck at her flesh. She could feel her panties getting wetter by the second, and without thinking, she dropped the bowl to the floor, startling them both when it made a loud thud as it hit the rug. And they laughed for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. Luckily, they wouldn't have to be quiet tonight.

* * *

Lyrics: "The Nearness of You" – Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong (Ella and Louis)


	12. Two Steps from the Blues

"Where… are the marshmallows," Michonne mumbled to herself as she stared into Rick's pantry. She had a tray of hot chocolate waiting on the counter nearby, and its topping was frustratingly nowhere to be found. "Where are the marshmallows?" she called out to anyone who'd listen.

Rick stepped into the kitchen from the living room to answer his girlfriend. He was unintentionally dressed in gold, as he had several strips of shimmering ribbon slung over each shoulder. "We don't have any marshmallows," he said.

She looked at him, smiling at the good work he was doing – all the ribbons the exact same length. "We do," she said. "I just bought some last weekend."

"Oh, well shit. I dunno."

"Carl!" Michonne called and then waited to hear his footsteps scampering toward her.

Rick chuckled to himself, the way she called him like a mother would, it felt… right. And within seconds, the kid appeared in the threshold of the kitchen covered in glitter from Christmas ornaments. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

"Do you know where the marshmallows are?" she grinned sweetly, mimicking his tone.

"Umm. All of them?" he asked.

Rick and Michonne glanced at each other, his suspicious reply making them both take notice. "Do you know where any of them are?" she asked.

"Some of them… might be in my room," he quietly revealed. "But not all of them."

"Why don't you go get the 'some' that are in your room," Rick suggested. He shook his head as Carl ran off and he turned back to Michonne. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately."

She shrugged. "His dad's got a new woman hanging around, his mom's got a baby on the way. He probably just wants attention."

"You planned an entire evening for us with the tree and everything," Rick said. "He's got plenty of attention. He's just bein' a little asshole."

Michonne laughed. She could only imagine the frustration of raising a child once they became old enough to make their own choices – even something as uncomplicated as whether to secretly eat some marshmallows. "Maybe if you weren't so busy with your girlfriend, you would've noticed," she said, smiling.

"Fair point." He went to join her at the stove, wrapping his arm around her waist as he planted a kiss on the back of her neck. She had her hair up, allowing him easy access. "I don't even need the hot chocolate," he whispered, enjoying the taste of her. He licked her skin, leaving a glistening wet spot just as Carl returned, forcing them to separate. The two of them watched him place half a bag of the Kraft jet-puffed mini-marshmallows on the counter and then step away from it.

"I'll give you credit for not eating them all," Michonne commented, smirking as she went to pick it up.

"That's one of your Christmas gifts," Rick added.

"What?" Carl asked, incredulous.

"You got to eat half a bag of marshmallows and you're not gettin' in trouble for it," he said. "Merry Christmas."

"But Christmas is still two weeks away," Carl said.

"Then Happy Hanukkah," Michonne inserted.

"That's not until Tuesday," he shot back.

"So you  _want_  to get in trouble here?" Rick asked. "Is that it?"

"I'll take Hanukkah," he said, quickly rescinding his sarcasm.

"And now you  _have_  to watch  _Charlie Brown_  with me," Michonne submitted happily, going on to finish the preparation of her hot chocolate – though it was more of a warm chocolate by then.

"Oh, man," he groaned.

"You both should be ashamed that it's not already a Christmas tradition in your home," she said, playfully admonishing both Carl and his father. Carefully, Michonne handed over the full mugs and pointed them back toward the living room. "Back to work, boys." She followed closely behind, stopping at Rick's sound system to turn on some music, sending Donny Hathaway's heavenly crooning through the loft's speakers.

The living room was a mess of decorations – white lights and and gold ribbons and ornaments. There was a giant Douglas Fir sitting in front of the balcony window, waiting to be trimmed, and she couldn't wait. Even the smell of it had her in a sentimental mood. Christmas had always been her favorite time of year – the festive mood, the parties, the shopping, the gift wrapping. She  _loved_  gift-wrapping. She thought this year she'd feel differently – this time last year, she was pregnant, and this time last year, she was still happy with Negan. But despite the changes – or maybe because of them – she still had most of that same excitement. She was more comfortable than not, there with Rick and Carl. It felt like she belonged there.

"Michonne, didn't you say you had cookies?" Carl asked.

"Oh. Yes," she remembered, setting her cup on the table to go retrieve the treat from the kitchen. One of her students had given them to her as a parting gift the day before, all wrapped in a cute little Christmas tin. "I didn't make these," she said as she returned, passing the container to Carl, "so I take no credit. But they're really good."

He immediately dove into the pile of red and green sugar cookies, choosing the latter for himself, while Rick went for a red one, holding it in his mouth until he finished fussing with his ribbon.

Michonne approached her boyfriend with an innocent smile and snapped the exposed half of his cookie from his mouth to eat it herself. "How do you feel about candles?"

"Candles?" he repeated, quietly wondering if this was conversation they should be having in front of Carl.

"Not real ones, but lights that look like candles," she explained. "To put in the windowsills. It'll create a nice warmth in here along with the tree lights."

"Oh, well… this is your show," Rick shrugged. "Whatever you want."

She grinned, appreciating that he was allowing her to take over his home with her nonsense. "You trust me?" asked teasingly.

"Despite knowing better," he joked, smiling, flirting. He gave her a quick kiss, her lips tasting like the cocoa, and suddenly, his interest in decorating was dwindling – he just wanted to head upstairs.

"Michonne, do you get snow in Iowa?" Carl wondered, obliviously interrupting their moment, as he was too distracted by sweets to notice anything else.

"Oh, for sure," she answered with a sigh, recalling all those harsh Iowa winters. Rarely seeing temperatures above 20 degrees between January and March. "I'm hoping I don't get caught in a snowstorm while I'm there," she said.

"I wish you could bring some snow back with you," Carl said. "We never get much here."

"Personally, I think snow is a little overrated," she replied, going back to her hot chocolate mug. "Give me a good rainy day any day over snow."

"You like rain?" he asked, making a face.

She laughed at his disdain, but understood why a child wouldn't enjoy such a thing. "I do," she said. "Curling up with a good book when it's raining is one of my favorite things to do."

"Sounds boring."

Rick chuckled, too. Because to him, that sounded quite nice. "Everything that's quiet is boring to you," he teased him. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You always say that."

"Because it's true," Michonne said.

"You know what I really wish?" Carl asked, reconsidering his previous point.

"What's that?"

"I wish you weren't leaving us for Christmas," he told her earnestly. "It's not gonna be the same here without you."

Michonne's head cocked to the side, moved by his honesty. Not that she didn't believe him when he said he liked her – he was similar to his father in the way that he only said things he meant – but here was a bit of proof that he truly did. "I'm definitely gonna miss you two," she said, grinning. "But my mom and dad really wanna see me, and I wanna see them, too."

Carl nodded. He couldn't imagine being without his parents on Christmas, so he understood her wanting to be with her own. "Did you think about inviting them here? So they could all spend it with us?"

She laughed, looking over to Rick for his reaction, though she didn't get much but amusement from him. In her mind, she was screaming,  _Hell no_. They obviously hadn't made it clear to Carl that their relationship was far too new for such a thing. Maybe Lori and Shane did that kind of thing – it sounded like they'd moved pretty quickly – but Michonne was very much still getting used to the idea of calling Rick her boyfriend. "No… I can't say that we did," she shook her head adamantly. "It's a bit soon for that."

"So… next year?" he pushed.

"Carl," Rick cut in. He knew that Michonne loved his persistence – it was endearing in small doses – but he also knew that it could just as easily exhaust her.

"Why don't we start with the lights," she suggested, nodding toward the tree. She'd spent all evening getting them untangled and checking all the bulbs, so she was eager to get them up. And to change the subject.

"Okay," Carl popped up from his seat, taking big gulps of his drink to finish it off before having to get to work.

"You know the good thing about me leaving," Michonne said as the three of them started their task. Carl took the bottom section of the tree, while she took the middle, and Rick used a stepladder to wrap lights around the top third of the eight-foot tree. "When I get back, we get to start our MCU marathon."

"Oh yeah," Carl remembered. They decided the weekend before that they'd watch every Marvel movie, in order, leading up to the release of  _Infinity War_. It would be their Sunday evening routine when he came home from his mom's. "You know, we could probably start tonight," he suggested. "If you don't think you'd forget everything..."

"Jesus, I'm not that old," she laughed as they passed one another. "Make sure you spread those lights evenly," she added.

"He's just tryin' to get out of watchin' Charlie Brown," Rick said knowingly.

"Dad!"

"You sneaky little bug," Michonne chirped, kicking herself for not even picking up on it. "You're gonna feel silly when you actually like it."

"It looks so boring."

"You can't judge a book by its cover."

"It's not a book," he said. "And I've seen the animation. It's even older than my dad."

Michonne tried not to laugh, but he really was funny. "Steve Rogers is gonna be a hundred next year. You don't think he's boring."

"That's true," he granted with a sigh. "Maybe it won't be the worst thing in the world."

"Imagine that," she playfully rolled her eyes. The three of them continued their decorating in silence, allowing the lively music to be the the conversation, Michonne watching both of them to ensure they were properly distributing the lights. She knew there was a high likelihood she'd have to redo Carl's part of the tree, but a cursory glance told her told her he was actually doing okay.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he announced once he was done with his set. "Please don't turn on the lights without me."

"We wouldn't dream of it," Rick called after him as he ran off. He gazed down at Michonne, observing the way she smiled watching Carl disappear. She really liked him, he could tell. "Told you," he said.

She looked up at him, both confused and amused. "Told me what?"

"That you'd like him as much as you like me."

She only shook her head, unwilling to admit that defeat, even as she she distinctly remembered him using 'love' in the place of 'like'. In either case, he was probably right. "Promise me you'll take a video of when he finds out he's going to Paris?"

"I will," he nodded. He continued to watch her as she went back to dressing the tree, and she seemed so genuinely relaxed. Maybe even content. So unlike the woman who came to dinner at his cabin back in July. "I'm proud of you," he said.

She looked back up at him, a wide, happy smile claiming her gorgeous face, and she nodded back. "I'm proud of me, too."

* * *

The next morning, Rick awoke to the cold, dreary Saturday with Michonne in his arms, the big spoon to her little one. He breathed in the scent of her hair – something appropriately pepperminty, to match the season – as he squeezed her tighter, running the pads of his fingers down her torso, grazing her breasts. He tenderly pressed his lips to the back of her neck when she began to stir. "Are you awake?" he asked in a husky whisper.

Michonne smiled to herself as she felt his soft lips on the back of her shoulder. She could hear the rain falling in the background as she slowly came to. The quiet smack of his kisses roused her fully. "I'm getting there," she said with a low groan. His mouth moved to her neck, his tongue snaking out to lick her skin, and she arched her back, pressing her backside against his crotch, his morning erection slipping between her cheeks. His body heat was so delightfully soothing. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he returned with a tired, happy smirk. He pulled up their comforter so that none of it could obstruct him, and he moved in closer, sending his hand between her thighs. He smiled as his fingers ran through her pubic hair and immediately found her clit, making her moan out loud. "Shhh," he chuckled, his index and middle digits already penetrating her.

"Rick," she breathed. She lifted her right leg to allow him deeper, all while his kisses consumed her neck and the side of her face. "What time is it?" she asked, concerned about the possibility of being interrupted.

"Who cares," he mumbled against her skin, the sound of him fingering her wet flesh louder than the rain now. He began to lick his lips, wanting nothing more than to eat her pussy for breakfast.

"We both should care," she grinned sleepily. He withdrew his hand, while his kisses turned ardent, moving down her shoulder and arm as he pulled the covers down, exposing them both. "Rick," she giggled, his smooches sending her rolling onto her back. He licked and sucked at her nipples, leaving them stiff as pebbles when the cool air touched the wet buds. He rolled his tongue along the ripples of her stomach until he reached her belly button, circling and kissing her cute little navel, while she pretended to protest. "Rick, we don't have time."

He came up for air, solely to glance at the time and reassure her that they did. "It's barely seven o'clock," he said.

She breathed a sigh of relief – truthfully, she wanted as much of him as she could get before she left for the holidays. "Okay, okay, let's go," she was happy to encourage him, pushing the sheets out of the way. "Hurry up. But go slow."

Rick had no idea what that meant, and his expression said as much. But he would certainly try to acquiesce, as he positioned himself between her legs and went to work. He used his fingers to split her slit and trailed his tongue down her flesh to wet her vagina, the entire lower half of her body clenching in response.

"Oh, god," she whispered, feeling her toes already curling. "Shit."

He smiled at her reaction as he lapped at her clit, circling his tongue around the little pink bud, then sucking on it until her legs began to squeeze his head. He rolled his tongue down her pussy until he was between her cheeks, catching all her juices as they streamed down her skin. As he made his way back up, he gently ran his tongue sideways across her lips, leaving her writhing beneath him. He left soft kisses between her thighs, and that, too, made her tremble.

Michonne knew she should've been used to this by now, but no, each time he gave her head was like that first time that left her speechless and whimpering. He was so skilled at this gentle fervor, where he was voraciously devoured her, but still managed to be so attentive, taking his time to get her right. He liked to drown in her pussy, using his whole face to drive her insane. He made out with her clit, sucking softly with those fucking lips of his. His beard left her feeling ticklish as it kissed her skin, grazing her thighs, always leaving his facial hair wet by the time he finished. Which was filthy, but also a turn on, to know he was so intense and intent in pleasing her. Goddamn, he felt good. Her legs were shaking and she couldn't stop them, while his hands squeezed her cheeks as her body lifted from the bed each time he licked her. "Rick," she whined quietly. She could feel an orgasm on its way, and he wasn't showing any signs of stopping.

"Mmm, fuck," he mumbled. She tasted so good. He used the tip of his tongue to flick back and forth across her clit until he felt that familiar quiver that told her she was climaxing. Her moans turned more fervent, her breathing stuttered. He could smell the sweet aroma of her cum as he pulled back, could see it trickling down her pussy as he prepared himself to enter her; stroking his rock hard length while she continued to come down from her high. He rubbed his dick against her opening, using her fluids to lubricate himself before slipping into her with a quiet grunt.

Michonne, however, couldn't contain herself. " _Fuck_ ," she hissed, her left hand blindly searching for something to hold onto. She tried for the headboard but her hand punched the wall instead. She was still tingling and tender from her first orgasm, and with Rick inside her, she didn't know what to do with it all. " _Shit_ ," she whimpered again. She had a grimace on her face, the unbearable pleasure making her wish she could scream. She would've done anything to be back in Gatlinburg at that moment. She could only hope he'd go slow, because she wasn't sure how much she could handle right now.

Luckily, Rick could read her like a book, and he began with delicate thrusts as he moved in close to kiss her neck again. She was so wet, he also needed to take it slow or he'd be done for in seconds. "Mm," he grunted, slipping in and out of her slowly but steadily. She grabbed a handful of his hair, redirecting his lips from her neck to her mouth, the two of them sharing a sloppy kiss that stole one another's breath. He fucked her with long, fluid strokes that sounded wetter than the rain beating against the windows. She felt sublime and he never wanted to stop. "Michonne," he mumbled against her lips.

"Rick," she breathed. They were so close, so entwined, she was certain she could feel his heart wildly beating against her chest. While her back beat against the mattress with every thrust. To think, there was once upon a time that she didn't really like the missionary position, thinking it boring. With Rick, it was anything but. He had one of her legs over his shoulder, allowing him so deep, he was probably tapping on her cervix. She was deliciously full of him, and his stroke managed to hit all the right spots. And his quiet moans against her ear only drove her crazier. " _Rick_."

He enjoyed the way his name sounded in her breathy moans far too much, unable to stop himself from taunting her more. He pulled out without warning and pushed back in only slightly, allowing the tip of his cock to skim her opening. He smiled mischievously when her jaw dropped, but nothing came out. "You okay?" he asked, amused.

"Fuck you," she growled, feeling tortured as he rubbed himself against her clit. She closed her eyes and squeezed his shoulder, her nails digging into his hot skin as he mercilessly teased them both. She could feel herself clenching with every little stroke, her body unconsciously searching for that feeling of him back inside her.

Rick laughed as he dove for her neck again, his tongue lapping at her salty skin, sucking on her throat as he pushed back into her dripping wet pussy. He was the one taken by surprise when she rolled her hips up to meet his, sending him deeper than he was prepared for. He could feel her walls tightening around him and he thought he was going to explode. "Fuck, Michonne," he said breathily, unsure how much he had left in his arsenal. But whatever it was, he gave it to her, picking up his pace until he was pounding into her, her tits bouncing beneath him as the headboard repeatedly hit the wall. He should've worried about the noise, but he didn't, he couldn't, too enraptured by this woman to care about anything else.

"Baby," she purred, her body trembling with another imminent orgasm. She had a fistful of his dampened curls in her hand, clutching them through the splendid pleasure. His kisses left her feeling like she was suffocating in the best way. When her orgasm hit, like a fucking train, she grabbed the pillow behind her head just to keep from screaming. And still, her moans and repeated expletives weren't nearly as quiet as they should've been. Morning orgasms were always better anyway, but this one was truly magnificent, claiming nearly her entire body, leaving her tingling from her tits to her toes.

Once she was able to see straight again, she gave Rick the slightest of nods, informing him that he could let go whenever he was ready. And he took the much-needed reprieve, as it was no easy feat to hold out until she was finished. Not when he'd been balls deep inside her, feeling like he was going to die every other minute. He was quick to pull out after receiving the go-ahead, and before they knew it, he let out a relieved, guttural grunt as his cum decorated her stomach. He milked himself until he was done, some of it ending up on her thighs and his, and then fell into the bed beside her, spent. "Goddamn," he sighed.

She smiled, because that was the only possible response for what'd just happened. She reached out to touch him, but before her hand could find him, he'd slipped out of bed and was off to the bathroom. "You weren't supposed to leave yet," she called after him.

"Well our quickie wasn't so quick," he smirked, promptly returning to her with a towel in hand. "I should go get breakfast before Carl gets up."

Michonne was too tired to argue or anything else, so she simply wiped the semen from her body and threw the towel to the floor with everything else they'd discarded the night before. "Well I'll be right here," she said, making herself comfortable. She was actually happy to have the big California king all to herself, and too hot and exhausted to worry about cover, so she simply laid there, naked and satisfied.

Rick smiled at the sight when he returned from the bathroom with his mouth full of toothpaste, picking up his jeans from the floor. "I'm just gonna go down the street, I'll be right back," he said before she could fall asleep again. He left her with a sweet kiss to her nose, hoping she'd be just like this when he returned.

* * *

"Hello?" Lori called into Rick's quiet apartment – silent, really, aside from a clock ticking and the patter of rain hitting the windows. It was gloomy, save for the lights glowing from the Christmas tree. "Jesus," she said, a comment on the gorgeous décor. It was elegantly trimmed in white and gold ornaments and cascading glittery gold ribbons. She wondered if he'd hired someone to decorate since he'd gotten these fancy new digs; it made sense that he'd need a fancy Christmas tree to go with it. A bit opulent for a house with a child, but she bet Carl loved it anyway.

When she received no answer, she checked her phone for the time – it was just past 8am, so she wasn't early. Maybe Rick had taken Carl to breakfast, and by some miracle, he was the one running late. She sent him a quick text to ask where he was, and then made herself comfortable at the kitchen table. She'd been to his loft plenty of times in the past year, but it always boggled her mind that Rick –  _Rick Grimes_  – lived in a place like this. Artsy and trendy. Not that he wasn't artistic himself, but in a decidedly different way. Even without Aaron's vibrant flair, she never would've chosen such a space for Rick. That little cabin in Gatlinburg was always more his speed. He never liked or needed a lot of stuff. Then again, he never had a big paycheck from some publicly traded corporation either.

Lori chuckled thinking of her life with Rick, all the years they struggled. How she kept them afloat while he started his business, both of them hoping he'd be mildly successful, just enough to help take care of their family. She never could've imagined he'd flourish like  _this_. And she was happy for him – no one deserved to prosper more than Rick. But it had been an… interesting journey, watching him evolve. She sometimes wondered what it would've been like to be with this version of Rick. Someone happy with himself. Someone fulfilled. She didn't regret moving on with Shane, as much as she did regret the way she did it. But she couldn't help but think,  _what if I'd stuck it out a little while longer?_

It was a silly thought. In the end, she and Rick didn't really like each other. Not who they'd become over the last half a decade. They were together because of Carl, and that was no way to be in a relationship. She enjoyed her life with Shane – for the most part, anyway. And according to Carl, his dad was seeing someone, too. Rick had yet to mention such a thing, so she wasn't entirely sure their son hadn't just made it up, but she hoped so. For Rick's sake.

After a few minutes of silence, Lori opted to use her free time to raid Rick's kitchen, stealing a small bottle of Simply Orange from the refrigerator as she went to explore the art on the bright green walls. Mostly Carl's drawings from kindergarten, back when that was practically all they did at school. It was where Carl picked up his fondness for colored pencils, preferring them over crayons. Of course now, he did most of his art on his computer. It was scary how much he'd grown in just a couple of years.

As she stood there, she remembered that Carl had designed a set of decorative plates that used to hang there in the breakfast nook. She and Rick argued for days over who got to keep those plates, and she eventually conceded, once she saw his apartment and that they fit better at his place. They were striped like the LGBT flag, giving the green and brown kitchen a much-needed pop of variety. But now, she noticed, they were nowhere to be found.

_Sorry, went to get breakfast. Be right back._

"Of course," she mumbled to herself upon reading Rick's text. With that, she went on with her expedition, making her way back out to the living room to scan it for said plates. He had what felt like a hundred shelves and she surveyed them all, finding nothing. She checked the guest bathroom and the hallway leading to it. She took her search upstairs to the library, which seemed a likely place to put them. She also knew it made no sense to be this invested in these plates. They were Rick's. They'd agreed on it. But curiosity had gotten the best of her, and with nothing better to do than wait, satisfying that curiosity seemed like an adequate way to pass that time.

She made it upstairs – though not before being winded by the actual steps – and found nothing in the library but Rick's massive collection of books, and again, she laughed. She smiled, really, because he was just so good at this stuff. He liked to learn, which was what made him such a good father. Shane's idea of reading was scrolling through the news feed on Facebook.

Lori moved on to the next room in search of these coveted plates, vaguely recalling it as Rick's bedroom. She'd only been upstairs in the place once, so she could have walking into a linen closet for all she knew. So without thinking much about it, she pushed open one of the double doors, a view of Rick's bed staring back at her; and in the bed, a naked woman splayed across it, fast asleep. Lori let out a small gasp, but she wasn't shocked enough to close the door. Not yet. She stared, enviously, at this woman, who looked like she'd just been properly fucked. She could even smell the sex in the air. There was a towel on the floor nearby, and Lori could guess what it had been for. The woman had one of her legs hanging off the bed, too worn out to pull it onto the mattress, it seemed. The rest of her was twisted in the sheets, which just barely covered her; her perfect, gravity-defying breasts and the flattest stomach she'd ever seen. While Lori stood there four months pregnant, feeling as big as a house already, but certainly in comparison. It was what she deserved for being creepy, but shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She stood there for all of three seconds, but it felt like three minutes as she realized where she was, what was happening. This was Rick's girlfriend. Shit. She quietly closed the door and tiptoed her way back downstairs as silently as she could, cursing with every step. She had just crossed so many lines and she knew it. And intrigue was no excuse.  _Shit_.

When Lori got back to the living room, she decided to try again, feeling as though the girlfriend should know someone was there. She wished she could remember the name Carl had given her. "Hello?" she called loudly, making sure to yell near the staircase this time. She also knocked on a nearby wall, hoping it would wake her. Then again, the way she was in that bed, Lori wasn't sure anything would get her up. "Anyone home?"

Half a minute later, she heard shuffling, and expected to be met by the stranger in Rick's bed, but instead, Carl appeared at the top of the staircase. "Hey," he greeted his mother groggily.

Surprised to see him, Lori's eyebrows furrowed as she asked, "You're here?"

Before he could answer, Michonne came scrambling out of Rick's room, wearing her shirt from the night before, along with Rick's boxers. "Carl!" she yelled before seeing him. She was panicked by the noise, worried that something had happened.

"I'm here," he calmly assured her, meeting her in the landing. "My mom's here."

Frazzled and bleary-eyed, Michonne looked over the balcony to see Lori standing there, looking up at them. "Oh," she said, taken aback by her appearance. "Hi."

"Hey," Lori said, smiling politely; she had to work hard not to imagine her naked. "I'm Lori. Carl's mom."

"Michonne," she answered, her voice thick with sleep.

"I'm so sorry for startling you guys," Lori said. "I was supposed to pick up Carl at eight, and I thought he wasn't here since Rick was gone." Inwardly, she couldn't believe he just left Carl with this woman she'd never met and only heard about in passing. Rick would have a coronary if she left Shane alone with their son without his permission.

Michonne nodded. "I'm sorry as well. We must've lost track of time," she said. "He just went over to Merridee's to get breakfast. Should be right back."

"We were up late," Carl said excitedly. It was the first time he could remember seeing 11:00 pm on the clock. "We decorated the Christmas tree."

"I see that," Lori grinned, glancing in the direction of said tree.

"You should go ahead and get dressed," Michonne quietly encouraged Carl, running her hand through his hair before he could take off. "And don't forget to brush those teeth."

"I await the day he remembers to do that without being reminded," Lori joked.

Michonne smiled tersely as she moved down the stairs to greet their guest, crossing her arms over her chest when she remembered she wasn't wearing a bra. She studied the woman briefly, taking in the face she'd only seen in pictures prior. Michonne could see traces of that person – a woman once buoyant and wide-eyed. Lori was pretty, really. She had a kind face. Bright brown eyes. But time, maybe world-weariness, maybe her sins, had taken that away from her. She didn't have that gleam that most people attributed to pregnant women. She looked unhappy. "I hope you didn't have to wait too long," she commented, observing the bottle of orange juice in Lori's hand. She also noticed her protruding belly. The woman was so thin, she couldn't have hid her pregnancy if she wanted to. Michonne took a few steps back from her, as if her gestation were contagious. But it was just difficult to be so close to a pregnant woman.

"Oh. No," Lori said, lying. She avoided Michonne's face now, knowing she'd just violated the hell out of her privacy. She kept her eyes on the floor instead. "I just got here a couple minutes ago. Though it did take me a minute to find a parking space."

"Oh, yeah. I had to park all the way around the block the other day."

"I love having my driveway," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know how people live like this."

"I mean, the trade off for this apartment is pretty nice," Michonne smirked. "Plus, residents get their own spots."

"That's true," Lori granted. "I forgot this is a fancy place."

She didn't reply, but nodded as she yawned.

"Do you like it here?" Lori said. She wished she could know how much time she spent here without having to actually ask. She'd have to try and pry it out of Carl later.

"Yeah, it's very nice," Michonne said. "Luxurious."

Lori nodded back. "We never lived like this," she informed her quietly. "Our house out in Brentwood is fine, but it ain't this."

"I live in a cabin, so…"

"Well. Rick really lucked out in that deal with Restoration Hardware, huh?"

Michonne frowned, having no earthly idea what she was referring to. She never asked Rick how he made his money, because she didn't care. And hell, maybe she should've – what if he was some kind of criminal? But for all she knew, he was born rich. It came down the the fact that his money didn't matter to her, and it was pretty clear it didn't matter much to him either, so it never came up. Which was why she was so confused, and frankly, appalled, that Lori was discussing it with her now. "Sounds like you lucked out too," she said evenly. "Getting to live rent-free and all." She got that bit of news from Aaron after they returned from Memphis, and two weeks later, it still hadn't left her mind. Michonne knew she didn't have much room to talk, as the way she left Negan was high on the list of egregious ways to treat an ex. But Lori seemed oblivious to her shittiness.

Lori replied with a rigid smile, the comment taking her by surprise. "Yeah, I guess I did," she admitted. She wanted to ask how long she and Rick had been together – since she knew so much about her and all – and she was going to. But Carl came trampling down the steps just as she readied herself to speak.

_Thank god_ , Michonne thought. She wouldn't even bother to check that he'd brushed his teeth. "You sure you got everything?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, dragging his backpack along with him. "I still have homework to do," he told his mom.

"Whoa, what happened to finishing homework on Friday nights?" Lori said.

"That's my fault," Michonne said. "I was here when he got home yesterday and we ended up going shopping for Christmas stuff."

"Oh," she replied, trying her best to sound nonchalant about it. But staying up all night, not doing homework. Things weren't starting on a great note here. "Well I'm glad you had fun," she told Carl, cupping his face as he approached.

"Did you guys find out what the baby is gonna be?" he asked, rubbing his mother's belly as he hugged her.

"We did," she grinned down at him. "It's gonna be a little girl."

Michonne smiled weakly at the news, wanting to be happy for her, but she couldn't see past herself in that moment. And while she didn't know Lori well enough to be genuinely excited, she worried that even if it were Sasha, she wouldn't have been able. "Congratulations," she managed to say through her thoughts.

"Thank you," Lori grinned back, her gaze flitting back to the floor. "Well we're gonna get on outta your way," she added, pushing Carl toward her to say goodbye.

"I don't know what's taking Rick so long," Michonne said, awkwardly looking around the room for the clock.

"Merridee's is extra busy on Saturday morning," she shrugged. "It's fine. He'll see Carl on Monday."

Michonne didn't know the ins and outs of their relationship well enough to argue, and she supposed she couldn't stop this woman from taking her son even if she did. "Well all right," she said, grinning at Carl as he approached. "I'll see you later, bud."

Lori watched as Carl gave Michonne a big bear hug, noticing that she'd adopted the term of endearment Rick used for their boy. And more importantly, that she seemed to genuinely like and take care of him.

"In two weeks, right?" Carl asked.

"Right," she nodded, returning the hug with a quick kiss to the top of his head. "Enjoy your last week of school."

"You, too," he grinned. He remembered her saying she still had papers to grade. "Tell Dad I said 'bye'?"

"You know I will," she said.

"It was really nice to meet you," Lori told her.

Michonne forced another smile and nodded. "It's nice to meet you too," she said and gestured toward Carl, "I'm a big fan of your work."

Lori was sincerely touched by the compliment, and maybe it was hormones that made her eyes sting with tears, but she could only nod appreciatively in response.

"What work do you have?" Carl asked his mother, baffled by the statement.

Before anyone could answer, the elevator rang, signaling that Rick had made it back just in time to see them off. He walked in with his hands full, surprised to find Michonne and Lori standing face to face, with Carl between them. One eyebrow lifted when he noticed his girlfriend in his underwear, and he had to wonder what the story was behind that. "Hey," he smirked at her.

"Glad you made it back. We were just about to miss you," Lori said, patting his arm. "You mind waking us out?"

"Sure," he said. But not before handing over the breakfast and coffee to Michonne. She gripped his t-shirt to pull him in for a quick kiss, which pleasantly surprised him, and he replied with a slow smile. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm good now," she said, holding up the bag. She could already smell the cinnamon from the rolls inside. "Carl, you wanna take one of these with you?"

"Yes, please," he nodded, following her to the table. He gratefully accepted one of the giant pastries once Michonne wrapped it in a napkin for him.

"You share that with your mom," she whispered to him, sending him on his way. She watched as the trio headed downstairs and let out a small sigh of relief that Lori was gone, glad to be alone with her breakfast, really. After the chill that Lori cast over the house, she would need the coffee to warm back up.

Back downstairs, Lori sent Carl to her car, parked right in front of the building, while she took the chance to speak to Rick in private. "I like her," she declared once the coast was clear, nodding at him to underline her point. "What I know of her, anyway."

"But what?" Rick asked, knowingly. He kept one eye on Carl outside, the other on his ex. As if they were both his children.

"But prior to ten minutes ago, she was a complete stranger to me. And you left Carl with her."

He let out a heavy sigh, feeling like he should've foreseen this. And he probably would've, had he not completely forgotten that Lori was coming at 8:00. Too busy making sure Michonne was cumming at 7:00. "It was for a few minutes," he shook his head. "Everyone was asleep. It didn't feel like a big deal."

She chuckled, because she knew if it had been her leaving Carl with Shane, it would've been the biggest deal. "How did you even meet this woman?" she asked. "What do you know about her?"

He bristled, because it still genuinely bothered him that he didn't know everything he wanted about Michonne. "I know enough," he said.

"Of course."

"I know it's askin' a lot," he quipped, "but maybe try, just once, to mind your business. I didn't interview you when you started shackin' up with your coworker, did I?"

"You wouldn't even let Carl meet Shane for months!" she hissed.

"Shit, I wonder why that is."

"But when it comes to you, you don't even tell me you're dating someone, so imagine my surprise when I walk in your house and find some strange woman walkin' around in your boxers. You know you'd have me in court the very next day if I did something like that."

He couldn't deny that she was right about that. "You don't wanna start trading stories about what we've walked in on," he said, his tone cool. Cold, really. "I know you don't actually care that Michonne was alone with Carl for ten minutes, so what is that you want here?" he asked, uninterested in standing in his lobby arguing with her.

"Just tell me what's going on," Lori said. "When she'll be around. Especially if she's going to be alone with Carl."

He nodded, albeit belligerently, in agreement. "All right," he said.

"Okay," she said. She was taken aback by his easy concession; she didn't know what else to say. "Ten... I'll see you... later I guess."

"Yep," he said.

With that, he turned to leave, and Lori headed back out to her car, where Carl was just finishing up her orange juice as she settled into the driver's side.

"Hey, Mom?" he said, readying her for an obvious question.

"Yeah, baby?" she replied, distracted as she began to pull out of her parking spot. There was a Lexus parked in front of her that god knows she couldn't afford to hit.

"How come orange juice tastes so bad after you brush your teeth?"

She laughed at the random question. "I don't know, probably something about the mixture of chemicals in the toothpaste with the acid in the orange juice?"

"Probably. I guess I was looking for something more than that," he sighed. "I gotta remember to ask Michonne," he said, mostly to himself.

Lori's head shot in his direction at the mention of her name. "Why do you think she would know?" she wondered.

"Oh. She's some kind of scientist," he shrugged. "She says she mainly uses math, but I bet she would still know."

"Oh..." She was already processing the fact that Rick's girlfriend was gorgeous. And not just beautiful in the classic sense of the term, but simply put, she was hot. Big eyes, full lips, perfect figure. Now, on top of it, she was a scientist? Probably some kind of doctor. Where did Rick even find someone like that? "You like her, huh?"

"She's super cool," he nodded enthusiastically. "We're gonna do a Marvel marathon when she comes back from Iowa."

"And what's in Iowa?" she frowned.

"It's where she's from," he said as if she should've known. "She's going there for Christmas."

"I see," Lori nodded, staying quiet until she made her way onto the highway. "So how often is Michonne there with you guys?" she eventually asked.

"Umm. She's there on Thursday nights and leaves on Monday mornings," he said, thinking through the last few weeks. "She teaches classes, so she has to be back in Gatlinburg on Tuesday."

"My goodness," she said, genuinely impressed. She now understood why Rick was hauling off to that cabin every weekend he could. She had to fight for the privilege to pick up Carl on Fridays after school, but lately, Rick seemed to relish it. It was nice to know why. "Has your dad left you with her a lot?" she asked.

"No," Carl frowned, again, trying to recall the last couple of weeks. "We just met after Thanksgiving."

Lori nodded once more as she put together a timeline for herself. She found it odd that Carl didn't have a lot to say about this woman. He usually talked a mile a minute, detailing every single thing he did at his dad's house; but now, he was cool as a cucumber. "Had your dad talked about her a lot before this?"

"Not a lot," he decided with another shrug. "I dunno."

"Everything okay with her?" she said. "Why are you so quiet?"

"Everthing's fine," he promised. "I just don't like talking about this with you," he admitted, leaning against his door as if he were exhausted by the conversation.

"What?" she chuckled. "Why not?"

"Because," Carl sighed. "You and Dad have different lives now. You're with Shane, and Dad's with Michonne, and everyone's finally happy. So I don't wanna say anything that might make anyone unhappy," he said.

"Okay," Lori was quick to concede, impressed by her son's emotional intelligence. He was a smart boy, but this was another level of understanding that she wasn't even aware he had. She supposed it meant she and Rick were doing something right. And she wanted to respect his wishes. "Let's talk about somethin' else then."

* * *

"She's such a fuckin' hypocrite," Rick said as he chewed on his bagel. "If I'd done half the shit she's pulled, she would've been asking for sole custody of Carl. And quite honestly, I would've deserved it."

"Well," Michonne exhaled, rubbing her thumb against her index and middle fingers to rid them of crumbs, "You're the one who lets her get away with it, so what do you expect?"

Her tone was on the acerbic side, which left Rick frowning as he stared at her empty plate. "What?"

"For instance, why does she have free rein to walk into your house whenever she wants?" she asked.

"So she doesn't… have to wait when she comes to pick up Carl. If I'm not home, running late like today, she can just come on up." He didn't realize it was a problem, but as Michonne stared at him expressionless, he could see that it probably was. "She's Carl's mother," he said.

"No, I get that," she assured him. "But it means you have no privacy. No boundaries. It's bad enough she's already living in your house rent-free," she said. "But she gets to walk in  _here_  whenever she wants too? She probably cheated on you because she knew she could do whatever the hell she wanted." When he looked up at her, those blue eyes daring her to go any further, she caught herself.

"You wouldn't understand," he mumbled.

"No, I understand quite well," she retorted, but again, forced herself to pull back on the throttle. "I just… mean… she's going to keep taking advantage of you if you let her."

"So what do you want me to do?" he asked. "You want me to change the elevator code? That's an easy enough fix."

"Do what you want, Rick," she shook her head. "Don't do it because I said so. Then you're just putting yourself in the same boat with me."

"I'm askin' for your suggestion."

She stared at him, stubbornly biting at her lip. "Then change the code," she said quietly.

Without hesitation, he picked himself up, taking their empty plates with him and dropping them off at the sink before heading to his alarm system. With a few quick prompts, he changed the elevator code from a variation of Carl's birthday to the date of the moon landing. He returned to Michonne with a smirk on his face as he said, "That wasn't so hard, was it." He punctuated the remark with a kiss to her neck before reclaiming his seat.

"I feel like you're the one that made that more difficult than it needed to be," she sent back, her bare foot reaching out to touch his knee. She smiled at him, and suddenly all the tension in the room subsided. "I can't believe you dated  _her_ ," she said, shaking her head again. "For ten years?"

Rick laughed. He nodded knowingly. Because he couldn't believe it either sometimes. "What'd she say to you?"

"Nothing out of line," she shrugged, her finger absently playing with the opening of her coffee lid. "It was just… her whole aura. You just… you kinda get the feeling she's hard inside."

"That's an interesting way to describe it," he agreed.

"You can tell she wants to be personable, but she doesn't know how to be. She knows how to be nice, but not warm."

"Before a couple of weeks ago, some people might've said the same thing about you," he remarked.

"Shut up," she chuckled. "At least I know that about myself."

"You are very self aware," he nodded. As he sat back in his chair, he allowed her foot to rest in his lap. "You also try to work through it, and I don't think Lori knows the first thing about that."

Michonne offered a half-hearted smile at his assessment. He would've made a good therapist, she thought. Maybe it was why she was often both comfortable with and scared of him. "She wasn't always like this, was she?" she asked.

"Was she always like this," he repeated with a big exhale, attempting to retread the entirety of their time together. "She wasn't," he decided thoughtfully. "I think… a lot of her issues come from the fact that she really doesn't know what she wants. Y'know, she worked at some pharmaceutical company when we met, just tryin' to make ends meet, and then she got a pretty-good-paying thing with Bridgestone, but it was never really what she wanted," he explained. "And I think she just got stuck there."

Michonne nodded.

"And Carl wasn't… he wasn't planned," he intimated quietly. "But he became her identity. People would call her 'Carl's Mom' instead of her name, and I dunno what that does to someone. I really don't. But it just felt like... she lost herself."

Her eyebrows furrowed as she listened to him, as he described the other side of motherhood. She even knew women – coworkers, family – who loved their kids with everything they had, but couldn't avoid postpartum depression. Or plain old clinical depression. She didn't think about it much, because she was often too busy working through her own trauma, but the truth was that having children didn't always magically make life better. Lori was the tale of what could happen when you don't lose your baby. Maybe you lose you.

"And I sympathize with that," Rick went on. "I stayed, even when neither of us were happy. Probably would've stayed forever if she hadn't done what she did…"

Michonne inhaled sharply as Negan flashed in her mind – would that have been their fate if she hadn't walked away? Would she have just ended up breaking his heart some other way? She needed a subject change. "You wanna split a cinnamon roll?" she asked.

"Sure," he shrugged, watching her hop down from her seat and saunter across the kitchen, still wearing his drawers, which made him chuckle. "You really thought someone was breakin' in here at eight in the morning?"

"I didn't know!" she defended herself, regretting telling him that now. "I was knocked out, thanks to you, and then I heard noise. But not, like, loud noise. It just felt like something strange was afoot and I needed clothes."

"They look good on you," he smirked.

"This is the ultimate sign of trust," she said, returning to the table with a butter knife and a new plate. She stood in front of him and pulled the third cinnamon roll from the bag. "I don't wear just anyone's dirty underwear."

He laughed as he watched her lick her fingers. "I should hope not."

"What do you want for Christmas?" she asked, stuffing her mouth with a piece of the pastry.

Rick shook his head as he tore off a small chunk for himself. He loved that all their best conversations seemed to revolve around food. "Just you," he said.

Michonne smiled, her head tilting to gaze at him. "You're sweet," she said.

"What about you?"

"Besides the obvious," she said, referencing him right back, "I just want an easy time with my parents," she shook her head, sighing. "I'm nervous."

He couldn't pretend he wasn't surprised to hear her openly speak of her parents. "Are they difficult?" he asked.

"Not usually," she said, breaking off another piece of the cinnamon roll for him and then for herself. "But after the way I left, they're gonna be watching me like I was just released from a mental institution."

"So you're goin' home to  _Silver Linings Playbook_?"

"That's a pretty apt description," she chuckled. "Yeah."

"I can give 'em a progress report if you want," he teased, his mouth full.

Michonne barely smiled at his joke before going quiet, sliding her cup across the table to take a long sip of coffee. Because she'd decided over the last couple of weeks that she wouldn't be able to tell her parents about Rick. They were having enough trouble adjusting to the fact that she'd run off to Tennessee after leaving her fiancé. To tell them she'd found someone new while she was there, that was far too much to drop in their laps.

But Rick certainly noticed her lack of response, and the unease in her eyes that came with it. "What is it?" he asked.

"I think… it's probably best if I don't tell them… about you… yet," she said. She pursed her lips, waiting for his response, hoping he'd understand.

"You're hiding me from your parents?" he said. This time, it was his head that cocked. "Are you fifteen?"

"I'm throwing a lot at them, Rick," she said, keeping her voice low and even. "If it comes up, fine. But if not, I'm not gonna volunteer it. Not now."

His jaw seemed to involuntarily clench, but he nodded because he wanted to understand it. "Fine," he said.

"Don't be mad at me," she pled.

"I'm not… mad," he said. Or at least, he was trying not to be. He constantly struggled with toeing the line of too kind and not kind enough. He probably should be mad, or annoyed, if nothing else, but he was trying to take it in stride. "I'm just disappointed to hear it."

Michonne cut her eyes at him and his choice of words. Everyone walking the earth's surface knew that disappointing someone was far worse than making them angry. And she had no interest in going on a guilt trip. "Just pretend I'm Lori," she quipped dryly. "Or do I have to have your child for you to give me some leeway?"

"Whoa," he replied, taken aback by the barb. "What's wrong with you?"

She ran a frustrated hand over her face. "I don't know," she said. "I guess... I dunno. I'm going home to fix a lot of shit I broke, and I don't know what's gonna happen. So when I say I'm nervous, I'm understating it really," she admitted. "And that woman just... rubbed me the wrong way. I don't mean to talk about Carl's mother, but I really, really disliked her. And I think some of that may be because I see myself in her."

He nodded back as he could see this struggle on her face – whatever she did, why ever she left, it was all coming to the surface. But if she wasn't going to let him in on it, the only thing he could do was be as honest as he knew how. "Whatever you're goin' through, it's a lot. I get it. I see it," he said. "But this battle you're havin' with yourself, it doesn't give you license to be mean to me. You can't just... say whatever you want. I'm not tryin' be collateral damage on your way to healing."

"You're right," she shook her head, swallowing back a throat full of emotions. She appreciated that he wasn't afraid to be candid with her. It was also why she was so baffled that he would let Lori do whatever. But she needed someone who would call her on her bullshit. Negan with his ineffective suggestions. He tried, and she appreciated that. But she needed someone who, when she pushed, would push back. She needed Rick. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Michonne..." He, too, swallowed visibly, apprehensive about what he wanted to say next. "I love you," he whispered, staring into her wide brown eyes. "I don't need you to say it back, but I do need you to know. I'm not playing some game here. What we're doin', bringing you into Carl's life, this is serious for me." He nodded, seeing the fear in those eyes. "I say that to say, if this is too much… if I'm overwhelming you, then I need you to tell me. Because I need us to get this right."

Michonne tried to nod, but she felt herself frozen, stunned by his declaration. Not that it was surprising, but to hear it out loud, it was paralyzing. It'd been so long since she heard those words and actually felt something in return. She moved in close to him, taking his face in her hands. She wished she could say it back, but she wanted him to believe her when she did. So instead, she kissed him. A tender, chaste kiss to the side of his mouth, followed by another squarely on the lips. "You're not overwhelming me," she murmured back. She rubbed her thumb against his lower lip, looking him in the eye as they separated for air. "You're not," she repeated. But the truth was she wasn't sure who she was trying to convince – him or herself.


	13. Home

"Are you cold?"

Michonne's trance was broken when she felt Rick's hand on her thigh, and she looked over to him, confused. "Huh?"

"You're shivering," he said, gently rubbing her knee with his thumb. "You want me to turn up the heat?"

"Oh." She wasn't cold, but she didn't want to explain to him that she was actually trembling with trepidation about her trip. That she was terrified of seeing her parents – her mother, really – and having to answer for her crimes. Because then she'd have to explain them, and she only had a few more minutes left with Rick. She wanted them to be good. "Yeah, I think I am cold," she said. She watched him turn up the heat a notch and then she took his free hand into both of hers. She still loved his hands so much. They were one of the first things she noticed about him and strangely enough, might be what she missed most while they were apart. The way he held her was unparalleled to any other feeling. She closed her eyes once she began to see signs for the airport, hating how quickly it was all drawing to a close.

"Hey, Michonne?" Carl called to her from the back seat.

"Yes, sir," she was quick to respond.

"You didn't forget about your homework assignment, did you?"

"I definitely did not," she promised. "I have the first ten issues loaded up on my iPad to read on my flight."

"I mean, it would've been better if you got the actual copies, but… I guess that works too," he joked.

"You're such a purist," she chuckled, shaking her head. She gazed over at Rick as he smiled at their exchange. He was wearing a cap, so she could really only see his mouth. She liked when he wore caps. She wanted to take a picture of him, just like this. His lovely profile. They were only going to be apart for about ten days – which, in the grand scheme of things wasn't that long. For most of the time they'd known each other, they only saw one another in two-day spurts, with work weeks in between. But the last two weeks, since the semester ended, they'd been inseparable – her spending every waking minute in Nashville. Since July, he was all she cared to know. It felt so strange to be going back to the life that existed before him. In that version of her life, ten days might as well be ten months.

"Can we call you in the morning?" Carl asked her. "To say Merry Christmas?"

"Of course you can," she said, turning back to him. "In fact, you better." She said this knowing full well he'd be on his way to the airport himself on Christmas morning. She'd been privy to all the details about his trip, and she was so excited for him.

"Can I call you tonight?" Rick asked quietly. "Will you be settled in by then?"

"I should be," she decided, thinking through her schedule. "I get to Des Moines around four, so we should be in Grinnell around five, provided my parents are on time. Of course my mom is always early and my dad is always late, so it's a tossup," she chuckled.

He grinned again, enjoying hearing tidbits about her family. "Would you say you're more like your mom or your dad?" he asked.

"Now there's a loaded question," she sighed. "I think… I'm actually a pretty good mix between the two of them," she said. "My mom is more serious, even kind of stoic. Sometimes. But she definitely leads with her emotion. My dad is… funny, sometimes bordering on silly. He's also incredibly smart. He's a chemist," she added, unsure whether she'd ever told him that before. She was fairly certain she hadn't.

"And your mom?"

"She's retired now, but she was a librarian," she said, smiling. "I have so many pictures from when I was little, hanging out at the college they worked at. Surrounded by books."

"Sounds like you are both of them," he agreed, squeezing her hand.

"Michonne, can we come to Iowa next Christmas with you?" Carl asked. "I wanna meet your parents."

She grinned back at him, feeling like a year was  _perhaps_  enough time for her to get used to that idea. "Yeah, maybe," she nodded. "But we should probably just try to get to January first."

"He'll forget he asked this by the time he goes back to school," Rick assured her.

Michonne smirked back at him, but her entire body deflated when she began to see the scores of planes taking off nearby, quickly followed by the sign for exit 216B. She watched tensely and silently as traffic slowed the closer they got to the airport, giving them at least a little more time together. But god, she didn't want to leave these two people. She wished Rick had fought her more when she declined the invitation to Paris. She could be spending her holiday in one of her favorite cities with two of her favorite people; instead, she was going to dusty, cold Iowa, so her parents could treat her like she'd lost her mind. "We should plan a trip," she quietly said to her boyfriend. She wasn't sure he'd even hear her over the sound of his engine.

He glanced at her, not hiding his surprise. "What?" he chuckled.

"Just you and me. Maybe for Valentine's Day," she suggested. "Maybe… St. Bart's or… Anguilla. I dunno," she shook her head. "Does that sound silly?"

"No," he said, "not at all. That sounds amazing."

"It could be our first date," she grinned. She remembered him mentioning it months ago – before she would allow them to be anything – wanting to go on a date. They'd gone out a couple of times in Nashville, but nothing planned or at all fancy. Just dinner here and there. This was their chance to go all out. "Maybe I'll start planning while I'm gone."

"Can I go?" Carl interjected.

Michonne and Rick looked at each other, not expecting that he was able to hear them, and then in unison, as if they'd rehearsed it, they replied, "No."

"Oh, man."

"Maybe for spring break the three of us can go somewhere," Rick offered, looking over to Michonne for approval.

"Yeah," she nodded, this time squeezing his hand. "That would be nice." She loved the idea of making plans with them – something she wouldn't even entertain for herself six months ago.

"So you make a list of places you wanna go, and Michonne and I can talk about it in the new year," Rick said.

"Cool," Carl submitted, surprised it was so easy to get a trip out of this conversation.

"Couldn't you have driven a little slower," Michonne joked as the signs for the different airlines came into view. This was really the end of it.

Rick rubbed her knee one last time before returning it to the steering wheel, navigating his truck through the traffic until they were in front of the American Airlines kiosk. "It's not even ten days," he reminded her, all while feeling just as disappointed that she was leaving. "It'll be fine."

Michonne knew it was true and actually couldn't believe how needy she felt in the moment, but it didn't make the goodbye any easier. "I know," she sighed, forcing herself out of the car. While Rick pulled her bag from the back, she went to face Carl. "You be good," she said, raising her hand for a high five.

"I will," he promised, returning the gesture. "You be good, too."

She grinned, amused by his unending maturity. "Have fun this week," she added cryptically. "Tell your mom I said, 'Merry Christmas.' And kiss your dad for me every day, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded. "Tell your parents I said, 'Merry Christmas,' too."

Michonne didn't want to lie to him and say she would, so she simply peeked her head into the backseat to leave him with a kiss to his forehead. "See you later, bud."

"Bye, Michonne."

With a smile still on her lips, she met Rick on the sidewalk, him standing next to her little silver suitcase, wrapped in her favorite jacket of his. The sun hit his face at just the right angle, making his blue eyes glimmer and the highlighting the browns and grays of his beard. He smiled a bashful, sad smile, making her knees a little weak. "You be good, too," she smirked, taking the ends of his jacket into her hands. She knew they didn't have much time – airport patrol would be telling him to move along any second. Especially with Christmas Eve traffic.

"I should be tellin' you that," he said. He didn't waste any time, tilting his head so that the brim of his cap stayed out of their way, he cupped her face to pull her in for a kiss. His lips covered hers as his tongue pushed them apart, and he could feel the gentle sigh she let out when their tongues touched. Her trembling ceased and she simply melted into him, the heat between them eclipsing the cold air that surrounded them. Michonne's fingers crept up to Rick's neck, coiling through his curls, as always, knowing it would be the last time for a long time. His hand wrapped around her waist and then slipped down to her backside, stealthily pulling her closer as he gave her a little squeeze, all while their tongues did their dance. It was a passionate and sweet kiss, all at once. Heady and dizzying. A kiss that said hello and goodbye in the same breath.

Michonne swallowed hard as they pulled apart, that same bashful smile trying to claim her face as she tried to regain her faculties. In a way, she felt like she was already flying. "Thank you," she whispered, her brown eyes relaying her earnestness.

Rick quietly chuckled, both confused and amused by her response. "For what?"

"For being the best gift I've ever gotten," she said. With that, she let him go and grabbed her bag, feeling a sadness the moment she stepped away; one that only seemed to intensify with every step she took. This was going to be much harder than she thought.

* * *

Grinnell was a tiny town in a state that wasn't known for much of anything. Growing up, Michonne remembered it being a point of pride when she found out that T-Boz from TLC was born in Des Moines. Her father was a lifelong Trekkie, so she also knew that the character of Captain Kirk was from Riverside, and the actress who played Captain Janeway was from Dubuque. But mostly, Iowa was pure farmland, and so, rather uninteresting.

Grinnell was full of college kids, so it wasn't the worst place in the world to grow up. Even with its overwhelmingly white population, the Godard home was often filled with other Black folks. Her parents' best friends, the Jameses, often spoke about their town being a stop on the Underground Railroad, so it was etched in Michonne's mind from a young age, and one of the first things she recalled telling Sasha when they first met. It was in a class about feminism in the African Diaspora and Sasha was always one of the most outspoken. Michonne took to her immediately, and thought – or hoped, rather – that that tidbit would get her attention. It didn't.

Back then, Grinnell felt like home. She didn't know anything else, and couldn't even imagine feeling comfortable in some other city. Now, Michonne felt so out of place there. She remembered Negan hating how small it was – certainly compared to Atlanta or New York – and starting to agree with him at a certain point in their relationship. But really, she didn't mind the smallness so much. She supposed it was why she ended up in a town like Gatlinburg. And of course there was always an air of discomfort to be back in her parents' home, in the bedroom she grew up in, evoking memories of her sixteen-year-old self. But this time, just her with her parents, the three of them walking on eggshells around each other, it was a special kind of hell.

Since they'd picked her up from the airport, they seemed to be avoiding speaking about anything of substance. They only said they were happy to see her alive and in the flesh – as if all their FaceTime calls over the last few months were someone pretending to be her. Then again, maybe that was true. On the hour-long drive home, they mostly regaled her with details about their neighbors – one of them couldn't control their dog, another had tacky Christmas decorations. Her mother went on a full rant about the Skrobarceks, next door, allowing their 11-year-old to stay home by herself sometimes. There again was that small-town mentality, where everyone knew everyone else's business. It reminded her of Carol from Food City. Maybe being judgmental and nosy was a requirement for places with tiny populations. From the backseat, Michonne quietly wondered if Carol missed her. She hadn't seen her in two weeks now and gave no notice that she was leaving for the holidays. Hopefully, she wouldn't worry.

But going back to her parents – there were no questions about Negan or her plans for the next few months, as she expected. She figured they'd been saving the lectures for when they knew she couldn't hang up on them, but so far, nothing of the sort.

When she got home, the house was practically immaculate. The two-story, five-bedroom home had been cleaned from top to bottom. Wood floors waxed, not a single thing out of place. Michonne had been hoping there'd be some chore for her to do in preparation for Christmas, but no. It actually left her feeling like something of an outsider to come home to a place that had been cleaned as if a guest were visiting. Not to mention, her mother had used her retirement as an excuse to do a full remodel the house, which had been built in 1895. And so, with all the modern fixtures and new furniture, it felt even more foreign to Michonne. She realized she now felt more comfortable at Rick's place – both of them – than anywhere else in the world.  _Incroyable_.

Once she put away her bags and got settled in her room – which seemed to grow smaller each time she visited – she headed downstairs to have a quiet Christmas Eve dinner with her parents. Her father had been proud to tell her about the beef stew he had simmering in the crock pot all day, so she knew she was obligated to try it. But they were already eating when she arrived, which only managed to make her feel more out of place.

"I didn't know if you were going to eat," Rose greeted her daughter when she stepped into the open kitchen. She watched her carefully as she went to find a bowl and utensils. "You've gotten so thin," she added when Michonne didn't reply.

Michonne smiled politely. Reminding herself that they hadn't seen her in seven months; they didn't know how rapidly she lost weight after Anthony. That she'd actually been gaining weight recently. "Feels like all I do is eat these days," she said.

"Well it doesn't look like it," her father said, chuckling as he raised his pinky to his line of sight. "I can't even see you anymore."

"All right," she said, filling her bowl with a hearty helping of the soup. She looked around for some kind of roll or even cornbread to go with it, but didn't feel comfortable enough to ask. Instead, she silently joined them at the dining table. As she took her seat, her mother reached out to pinch her face – particularly the skin beneath her jaw. "Ma…"

"Such a beautiful girl," she commented. "You see the way her skin bounces back?"

"You don't have to prod the girl," Joseph said. "We know she's only thirty-five."

"I'm thirty-six, Daddy," Michonne gently corrected him.

"You know what I meant."

"Your hair has grown," Rose said, as if surprised. She ran her fingers through Michonne's long ponytail, mentally measuring where her locs would stop if untied. She was happy to see them freshly twisted, as that was not always the case when they had their video chats.

"Thanks," Michonne said, letting out an undetectable sigh – they were still her parents, after all – as she went to start on her food.

"So speaking of 'all you do'," Rose started to say as she pushed back from the table, "what  _are_  you going to be doing now that the semester is over?"

"Oh," Michonne replied, watching her mother head for the oven. She should have known they were saving the interrogation for dinner. Better to allow her to get settled before asking all the hard questions.

"Can we expect that you'll be going back to the CDC soon?"

"I was actually… thinking of staying," she answered slowly, purposely dragging out her words until she could see what her mother was up to. She ended up bringing her not one, but two pieces of garlic bread. "In Tennessee," she finished as Rose reclaimed her seat.

Joseph's eyebrows raised, surprised, as he inhaled a spoonful of his food. "Is that so?" he said. "You have 'staying in Tennessee' money?"

"I had a job there, you know."

"She had a job," her mother repeated her, scoffing in amusement. "And how much does your one class per week pay, my dear?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but her father cut her off. "Now Rosie, perhaps she doesn't need money as she did before. How much could that cabin possibly cost?"

"My money is fine," she frowned at them both. "I wouldn't have done this if I couldn't afford to be without a significant income for a while."

"You better hope so, because we can't support you  _and_  Yvonne  _and_  ourselves," he said. "We expected to be done with you two at eighteen."

She rolled her eyes at the mention of her older sister – the scourge of the family, and the very reason Michonne had always been so hard on herself. With Yvonne being the problem child all her life, it left no room for her to fuck up. "I haven't asked you for money since I left this house," she reminded them, smiling as she said it. "There's no reason to think I'd ask you now."

"You can ask us," Rose assured her, attempting to soften the conversation. "We just don't want any surprises."

"I'm fine," she insisted. "I have a partner back at UT," she went on to explain, referring to Spencer. "We're going to work on a grant proposal this semester to do some research at CDC."

Her mother immediately frowned at that information. "You left your real job just to do the same thing from another state?"

"I do a lot of things," she rebutted. "I'm teaching young people how to do what I do."

"So they can take your job?" Joseph joked.

"So they can help save the world," Michonne said seriously. "This semester, we did a deep dive into how gentrification affects public health. And they were engaged and curious. And I just got one of my students a fellowship in Chicago. And my department head… I don't know if he actually likes me, or just the fact that my presence ticks off two boxes at once, but he wants me back. And I'll be teaching these same students how to create actual machines that learn. I'm excited about it."

"Will they pay you more?" Rose prodded.

"I don't know, Ma. I haven't – we haven't negotiated all of that yet."

"You made good money where you were," she reminded her.

"She seems to be doing fine," her father interjected, a bit more seriously now. "Leave her alone, my love."

"She was a data scientist for the most prominent health organization in the world," Rose shook her head, finally going back to her food. "Now she wants to be a teacher at some university in the middle of nowhere. She is going backwards."

"Personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with teaching at a college in the middle of nowhere," Joseph winked at his daughter.

Michonne smiled appreciatively. The contrast between them – her mother's seriousness versus her father's playfulness – was usually endearing, as they complemented each other well. But now, in this moment where she felt a bit off kilter anyway, it was making her crazy. "I just want to be happy," she said. "Whatever that entails."

"I want you to be happy too," Rose promised. "I also want you to be safe. Financially, emotionally. Spiritually."

"Mostly, financially," Joseph cut in.

"Well I'm getting there," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt as she ignored another of her dad's jokes. "I just need you guys to trust me. And after what I did, I do realize how difficult that may be. But I came home," she reminded them. "I'm trying. So please just bear with me."

* * *

Later that night, Michonne used her parents' early bedtime as an excuse to call Rick sooner than later. It was just after 10:00, so she couldn't guess whether Carl was in bed or not, unsure whether kids retired earlier or later on Christmas Eve. It was a relief when Rick answered within a few of the short rings, his handsome face appearing on her iPad screen, and suddenly, the weight of the evening lifted. She could tell he was sitting on his couch, which made her feel like she was close to him again. "You miss me yet?" she grinned at him in greeting.

"Since the second you left," he said as he sat up a little straighter, equally as happy to see her face. He noticed she had her hair up in a bun, with a headband wrapped around it, which made her look even younger than she already did. "Looks like you made it through the first day okay."

Michonne scoffed. If it weren't for him, her mother's digs would still be ringing in her ears. "Barely," she said. "I think it might've been a mistake to come here," she added with a sigh.

"It's that bad?"

"I don't know" she shook her head. "I'm honestly not sure what I was looking for here. I thought I missed them, but maybe I just miss when they weren't disappointed in me."

Rick stared back at her, detecting the sadness on her face and in her voice. "Fuck parents," he said, shaking his head too. "I told you about how my father is, right?"

"Yeah," she nodded, thinking of Sasha's parents, who also took a while – too long – to come around when she came out. She thought of Negan's father as well. She'd never met the man, but knew more than enough to have an unpleasant opinion of him. "When you're a kid, you grow up thinking your parents know everything. It's strange and difficult to come to terms with the fact that they're just people, too."

"I worry about Carl realizing that about me," Rick smirked in agreement.

"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain," she said, only partly joking.

"Jesus, that's bleak," he chuckled. "This is exactly why we don't do DC around here."

"The fact that Carl wasn't even born when that movie came out makes me feel so old," Michonne said, making a face.

"You know what made me feel old?" he said. "I fell asleep tonight wrappin' Christmas gifts."

Michonne giggled. "You were asleep when I called?"

"Entirely knocked out," he laughed back. "I'm pretty sure Carl's not even asleep yet, but I couldn't hang."

"Sounds like you're on Paris time already."

"Yeah, that's what we're gonna go with," he said, still laughing. "It's not at all because I'm forty now."

"If I were there, you'd still be up."

"In more ways than one," he quipped, amused.

"Don't you start," she grinned. She was already bemoaning all the good sex she'd be missing out on while they were apart. To think, she'd gone from celibate to wanting it every day. She barely recognized herself – which was probably a good thing.

"I just thought about it," Rick said, propping up his phone on the back of the sofa so he wouldn't have to hold it. "We're not gonna be able to do our FaceTime thing while you're gone?"

She enjoyed how he referred to it as  _her_  being the one that was gone. To him, her being with him was the default. "Oh god, not while I'm here," she laughed quietly. She'd never had sex in her parents house, and didn't intend to now, not even virtually. "Maybe when I get to Atlanta."

"So it's fine for you to desecrate Sasha's house?" he teased.

"No, probably not. But we were roommates for three years in college, so we've put up with a lot of weird shit from each other."

He laughed. He missed her. "All right, so you made it through your first half-day in Iowa. What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" Rick asked.

"Make it through tomorrow," she said dryly. "I'm hoping my mom has some cooking she wants me to do. At least keep me busy through the day."

"You and your distractions," he said knowingly.

"It's gonna be a long night," she reminded him, referring to her parents' annual Christmas party. "The last time most of these people saw me, I was pr- practically engaged," she said, shaking her head. It was pure luck that she stopped herself before she could say 'pregnant.' "It'll be awkward, at best."

"Well if anyone's good at making an awkward situation worse, it's you," Rick grinned again.

"What?" Michonne chirped before laughing.

"You know it's true."

She unenthusiastically agreed with a shrug. "Maybe it is. But you didn't have to say it like that."

He shrugged back. "We can be brutally honest with each other," he said. "It's one of my favorite things about us."

"Except when I do it."

"Well you're just brutal sometimes."

"Sounds sexist, but okay," she said, nodding, with a silly smile to relay the playfulness of her remark.

"Well that's not fair."

"Neither is sexism, but here we are."

"You're crazy," he chuckled.

"If I am, I'm crazy for you," she said, not missing a beat.

Rick was pretty certain he felt his heart skip that beat, rendering him physically unable to stop smiling. God, he loved this woman. "I don't want this to end," he said quietly. He was talking about their phone call – mostly – but also them. Their time together. He wanted this forever.

"I don't either," Michonne said.

"Did you open your gifts yet?" he asked.

She smiled back at him awkwardly, unsure what he meant. "My gifts?"

"So you haven't unpacked, I take it."

"I… can't say that I planned to," she said, her eyes darting to her luggage. Taking the hint, she grabbed her tablet and went to her bags to investigate, choosing to look through the larger one first. "How big is it," she absently wondered out loud.

"That's what she said," Rick retorted.

"Dork," she giggled. Though she was secretly proud that he'd finally taken one of her suggestions and watched  _The Office_. "Is it even in this bag?"

"It is," he confirmed, watching with a smirk as she tore through all her clothes. "You probably should've checked the pocket first."

"Damn it, Grimes," she sighed. Getting comfortable on the floor, she flipped the suitcase to open the outside pocket. Indeed, there were two neatly wrapped gifts with tags waiting there – one from Carl and one from Rick, which made her smile. "Did you wrap these?"

"I… did not," he confessed with a chuckle. "Sherry offered to help, so I took her up on it."

"That woman downstairs?" she hissed. She was outraged but doing her best not to be loud about it. "You let her in your house?"

"I did…"

"You know I don't trust her."

"I do, though I've yet to understand why," he continued to laugh. "She wrapped your gifts a couple of days ago and I haven't even seen her since."

"All right, well don't be surprised when she shows up at your door tomorrow, unwrapped."

He was unable to contain his amusement. He also liked that she was the type to get jealous. "Open your gifts," he said through his laughter.

She was also chuckling as she set up her iPad on top of her suitcase. "Which one should I do first?"

"Normally, I'd say mine, but I'd rather you open that one second," he said.

"All right," Michonne said. She took the larger box tagged with Carl's name and began to unwrap it. She laughed when she realized it was a pair of action figures – Captain America and Black Panther Funko Pops. "That's very cute," she grinned, holding up the two smaller boxes for him to see.

"I told him you didn't need them, but he insisted that you'd like 'em."

"I do," she said honestly. Even if only because they'd make her think of Carl. "Tell him next time, I want one of Cap  _with_  the beard."

"You and that beard," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's not even that great."

"It absolutely is," she said defensively as she went on to open the next gift. "This feels like a book," she added, gently pulling the gift tag from the paper to save for later. The weight and size of it felt familiar, but she knew it made no sense that he'd give her a book she already owned. But then, as she tore at the paper, and the tattered pages of her favorite novel were revealed, she frowned. "What the hell," she smiled, confused.

"Keep goin'," he said, watching her expression intently.

She did as told, unwrapping until her own copy of  _Americanah_  was fully unveiled. She stared at it, waiting for something to appear different, but she was very clear that it was hers. She opened the book, thinking he'd perhaps left a message for her, maybe something she needed to decode. But inside the front cover, just beneath the title, there was a signature. An autograph from Chimamanda herself. Michonne let out a slight gasp, running her fingers across the bold black handwriting.  _To Michonne. Ama m atu inu. Chimamanda_.

"Rick," Michonne croaked out, her throat clogged with emotion as she stared at the page. She imagined getting her favorite author's signature wasn't too difficult when he had Ezekiel in his corner, but the gesture was so thoughtful, she was speechless.

"You like it?"

"I do," she grinned. She wished they'd done this in person so she could give him a hug. Suddenly, he felt far away again. "I love it," she said.

"Merry Christmas, Michonne."

She winced as tears threatened to fall, wanting to kick herself for how involved she'd gotten with this man. She had no business falling in love, but every time she turned around, she was only in deeper. Maybe she  _should_  tell her parents about him. "You want your gift?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't get me anything," he said, recalling her mentioning as much when they were wrapping Carl's presents.

"I lied," she grinned, taking her tablet, her book, and her Funko Pops, and heading back to bed.

"You do that a lot," he said, also picking himself up from the couch. He started toward the Christmas tree, but Michonne stopped him.

"It's in the library," she said, relieved he hadn't noticed it yet. She wanted it to be a surprise since it was such a small thing.

"Oh. Okay…" With his phone in hand, he trudged up the steps, turning off lights and the television on the way, knowing he wasn't going to finish his gift-wrapping session – he wouldn't see any of the recipients before the new year, anyway. When he made it upstairs, he took a quick glance into Carl's room, seeing he was fast asleep and awaiting Santa. When he walked into the library, he immediately noticed the small package sitting on one of the middle shelves among the framed pictures. "You sure can wrap a present," he commented, not even wanting to ruin the perfect black and gold paper, a satiny golden ribbon tying it all together.

"Open it," she whispered. "I need you to feel the way I just did."

Chuckling, he hesitantly untied the bow and began to pull the paper from the flat box. "I'm gonna laugh if this is a book, too."

"It's not," she said, watching him nervously.

He let the paper fall to the floor and carefully opened the box, pulling from it a 6x8 wood picture frame, painted bright green, and his heart nearly leapt from his chest when he saw what was inside it. A picture – a selfie – of Michonne and Carl at the diner down the block. Carl was wearing her sunglasses, his grin, with all his missing teeth, as wide as the frame. And Michonne with her tongue sticking out and a smile in her eyes, looked so happy. Ebullient. The embodiment of joie de vivre. He remembered this day well – it was just a couple of weeks ago, they'd stopped there to eat on their way to Target for Christmas shopping. They must have taken the picture while he was paying the bill. "It's perfect," he said, beaming. As he recalled how she'd avoided even the subject of Carl for so long. And how worried he'd been that she'd never take to his son. Here they were, the best of friends. "I'm so glad you walked into my yard that day."

Michonne closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall into her pillows as if they were Rick. "I don't know what would've happened to me if I hadn't," she admitted.

"Well you wouldn't have known about the bears, for one."

She smiled. "That's true."

"So I saved your life. That's a pretty big deal."

"Don't tell Carl I said it, but I think you're way better than Steve Rogers."

"Well I certainly have a better beard," he nodded.

"That's… debatable," Michonne chuckled. She was tempted to gently rib him a bit more and go into detail about what she enjoyed about Chris Evans' beard. But there was a hard knock at the door which sent her crashing back into the reality of where she was – her parents' home. While she was swooning over sweet gestures, they could probably hear her giggling every thirty seconds. The door opened before she could reply, which was expected and even understood under her their roof. But it didn't stop her from panicking as her mother stepped into the room, forcing her to hang up on Rick without warning.

"Your father is trying to sleep," Rose declared, continuing toward her daughter's bed without invitation. "Who are you talking to this late?"

Michonne had to work hard not to roll her eyes, knowing it couldn't have been past 11:00 pm, and she made the conscious decision to lie about her caller. After the way her mother acted at dinner, she knew she wouldn't understand that part of her life. "Just Sasha," she said, shaking her head. She typed out a quick apology text to Rick and then set her phone beside her, beneath the covers. "I didn't realize I was loud, Ma. Sorry."

"How is she doing?" she asked, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.

Michonne nodded. "She's good," she said. "I'm excited to see her again."

"I'm sure she would've gone to visit you if you had let her."

"She would've," Michonne agreed. "But it wasn't what I wanted or needed at the time."

"So now that you're all better, I take it you'll be seeing Negan, too…"

She could tell her mother wanted it to be a question, but it came out as more of a loaded statement. She shook her head in response. "You know I'm not," she said. "Why are you doing this?"

"I should be asking  _you_  this, Michonne. You're going back to Atlanta, you're going to be just a few miles away from him. The least you could do for that man is see him face to face."

"He doesn't even wanna see me!" she hissed. "Are you forgetting what he called me? What he said to me?"

"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes. "He didn't mean that."

"It sure sounded like he meant it."

"Well you can always apologize and go on your way," Rose said. "But to go back to that place and not even try to contact him. I raised you better than this."

"Excuse me for thinking my emotional well being is more important than being polite," Michonne muttered.

"I know you better watch your tone," she replied, perturbed by her daughter speaking under her breath. "Don't tell me you finally went to therapy while you were in  _Tennessee_."

Michonne scoffed. "No," she said. Not unless sex qualified as such. Then again, being with Rick was pretty damn therapeutic. "I just know what's best for me."

Rose shook her head. "You know I'm trying to understand this," she said, reaching out to touch Michonne's foot. "What happened to you, it wasn't fair. I wouldn't wish that pain on that man in the White House, and you know how I feel about him." The two of them smiled their identical smiles at her joke. "But I worry about the way you're going, sweetheart. Throwing everything away to be alone in some place you've never been. Negan was a good man," she said. "He was willing to take care of you, and you just wouldn't let him."

"Mommy, I don't wanna be rude, but I really don't wanna talk about this anymore."

"Still running, I see," she sighed, relenting as she picked herself up from the bed. "If you're going to be on the phone, please be quieter. Your father needs his sleep."

Michonne chuckled. Her mother – a woman who lived to serve her husband – trying to give her relationship advice.  _Jesus_. "I'm going to sleep," she promised, setting her phone on her nightstand. She noticed Rick hadn't yet replied. "Good night," she said before her mother could reach the door.

Rose paused to look back at her daughter – her baby – relieved to have her home. But scared all the same to see her so lost, so broken, when it wasn't so long ago, she seemed to have it all. And all she could do was pray that she'd manage to find her way back. "Good night, love," she replied.

* * *

Christmas Day had been a rather muted one for Michonne. As tradition went, she spent most of it assisting her mother with preparations for the party that evening. But it felt odd to be there without Negan. Quiet. Opening gifts was a short affair with just the three of them. Michonne gave her parents books that she thought they'd enjoy. They gave her money, seeming to believe, despite anything she told them, that she was in dire straits out there in Gatlinburg. Since they were so concerned about her being taken care of, they probably would've been relieved to hear that she had a new man with a net worth in the seven figures. It was so frustrating how they pushed her so hard to get a good education all her life, but didn't seem to want her to use it. Her mother, especially. She'd never seen that woman more happy than the day she told them she was pregnant and engaged.

On the bright side of things, she'd woken up to a video from Rick, as promised, of Carl finding out he was going to Disneyland. He also very sweetly recorded his reaction to  _her_  gift – a pair of tickets to Ace Comic Con, where he would be able to meet Captain America himself. She watched with tears in her eyes as he ran around the living room yelling with excitement. With joy. She noticed another phone number was included in the text – Rick and his iPhone illiteracy – and assumed it was Lori, given the 615 area code. She felt unexpectedly proud to be on the short list of recipients, along with Carl's mother. Even if she didn't like the woman, she was inarguably important to Rick and Carl. Michonne hoped it meant that she was too.

As the day rambled on, Michonne thought of the two of them often. She knew they had a layover in Atlanta, which made her chuckle – Rick being there in her home, however briefly. She was nervous for him, it being his first time out of the country. She wondered how Carl would fare on the eight-hour flight. He already complained about Gatlinburg being far. She imagined he'd sleep for most of it, so that would help. She was trying not to regret not going with them – she did  _need_  to go back home, after all – but a part of her felt so left out. It'd only been a month since she met Carl, but her place in their lives felt so much more comfortable than anywhere else. She missed them.

It was late in the day and she'd just finished re-waxing the living room floor when the doorbell rang. It was a silly task, as the floors had just been done the day before, but her mother insisted, as if Michonne had somehow ruined them in the 24 hours that she'd been home. But it kept her busy, so she didn't protest. At the sound of the door, she could hear her mother in the kitchen, fussing about the prospect of having company already – they weren't supposed to arrive for another 2-3 hours. "You want me to get it?" she called out to her. She didn't have any business answering the door when she looked like Cinderella in her dingy old clothes, her hair tied in tacky silk scarf, toting a mop. But her mother seemed to be taking her sweet time, and the bell rang again.

When there was no response, Michonne took it upon herself to greet the caller, carefully stepping across the finished floor to get to the foyer. In the corner window, she got a glimpse of the visitor, only to see that it wasn't a visitor at all. It was her sister. "Fuck me," she mumbled before unwillingly opening the door for her. "Hey," she greeted her coolly, giving a once-over to the woman she hadn't seen in over four years now. "What are you doing here?"

"The prodigal daughter returns," the woman grinned, pulling in her sister for a hug.

Michonne didn't return the embrace, but rather wondered who this nice, genial woman was standing in the door, looking like she'd just raided a Barney's – she was draped in a blushing pink Valentino coat and rainbow Gucci shades, a matching suitcase at her feet. If they didn't resemble each other so much, save for a few pounds Yvonne had put on where Michonne had lost, she would've been certain this lady had the wrong house. "Why are you here?" she repeated as they pulled apart.

"It's Christmas," Yvonne replied.

Michonne only stared at her. The way she said that as if she hadn't missed the last four Christmases was baffling. "Okay," she said, turning back into their parents' home.

"I'm surprised  _you're_  here," Yvonne said, following behind her with her luggage. "From what I hear, you're a runaway."

"All I did was leave Atlanta."

"Without your stuff and a Dear John letter?" she smirked. "Sounds like some Peter Pan shit."

"Just following your lead, I guess," Michonne shot back. "Or wait, I guess I would've emptied our parents' savings before I left if that were the case."

"For your information, I've paid them back," Yvonne said bitingly as she pulled off her sunglasses. "With your sanctimonious ass."

"Oh, well congratulations on doing exactly one thing right in your life," Michonne said. Both of them made sure to keep their voices just above a whisper so as not to be heard by their parents – even after all these years, they knew better than to argue in front of or around them.

"Thank you," she grinned sarcastically. "I also appreciate you fucking up yours so badly that I finally seem normal in comparison."

Michonne rolled her eyes and trekked back across the floor to find her mop. She didn't have any words left for her sister or the energy for her irreverence. Yvonne could kiss her sanctimonious ass, as far as she was concerned. "Ma, your daughter is here," she called into the kitchen.

"What?" Rose yelled back.

Yvonne took it upon herself to trample across the freshly waxed floor to go greet her mother. Michonne listened to the commotion, the giddiness in her mother's voice as she greeted her older child. It was nothing like the subdued welcome she received at the airport. Hers came with a long, quiet embrace – one that told her her mother was worried about her, more than anything. But there was no glee in their reunion. Nothing that said she was particularly  _happy_  to see her. She missed when her mother was happy to see her.

As Michonne continued into the dining room to set up the drink station, she could hear her father making his way downstairs, too.

"What is all the fracas about?" Joseph asked as he descended the staircase – of course, he couldn't actually be heard over said commotion.

"Yvonne's here," Michonne informed him as he passed.

"Oh," he said, sounding just vaguely surprised. He instead went to join his younger child in the dining room, where she seemed to be moping more than cleaning, which made him laugh. "What is wrong with you, child?"

She smirked at her dad's mocking – she'd generally always loved that he didn't take life too seriously, and it made growing up easy and fun a lot of the time; but right now, and in the last several months, it felt like trying to tell her problems to a child. "Nothing. I'm just tired," she said. "I guess I wasn't prepared for the disparity in not sleeping in my own bed."

"Liar," he said, continuing to tease her. "You've been sulking since you got here."

"I don't know what to say," Michonne shrugged. "It feels strange being here. It feels strange being everywhere."

"What did you think would happen when you tried to cut everyone you knew out of your life?"

"That's not what I was trying to do," she said. She sighed. Because she was so tired of having to explain this to them. "You guys are so focused on the fact that I left, you don't seem to care that I'm home. And I don't know how we move forward like this."

Joseph nodded, accepting her feelings, no matter how melodramatic they may have seemed. "Have you apologized to your mother?" he asked.

"What?" she frowned. "For what?"

"For worrying her. For what you put this family through."

Michonne bristled at that accusation. As if she hadn't called her mother every step of the way to Tennessee and checked in with them at least every two weeks. Meanwhile, Yvonne ran off to Sweden or Korea or wherever the fuck she wanted to go, staying away for years at a time, and no one seemed to mind. "The double standard in this family is ridiculous," she mumbled, returning to her task.

"So you want us to treat you two the same, even though you're different people?" he asked. When she didn't answer, Joseph went to the bar to join her, calming her when he placed a hand over hers as she tinkered with a serving tray. "Don't be so stubborn, my darling girl," he said quietly. "You're too smart to pick fights."

"Who told you that," Michonne scoffed, thinking of Rick.

"I know it, because you are like me," he said. "Or you used to be…"

"I don't know what I am anymore," she admitted with a another sigh. "I feel so lost," she said.

"That's an excuse," he told her, turning stern. "You're not lost. You moved away, you found a job. You're happy there. I worried about you, but you found yourself, as you always do. I don't know if you have simply convinced yourself that you've fallen so far you can't get back up, but you already have, sweetheart. You just need to keep going."

Michonne nodded, appreciating him for seeing that in her. Something her mother seemed to refuse to do. "I'm trying, Daddy."

"So apologize to your mother," he gently suggested. "Show  _her_  that you're trying."

"Why can't she see me the way you do?"

"I am assuming that's a rhetorical question," Joseph smirked rubbing his thumb against her hand. "You know she loves you, and the difficult woman that is your sister, more than anything in this world."

"I do."

"I think she just got scared when you… left. The thought of you being alone out there in the world, it isn't easy."

Michonne nodded again. She supposed that protective instinct would just never go away. This was what it meant to be a parent. "Daddy, if I tell you something, is there any chance you won't tell Mom?"

He peered at her, as if he could figure out what it was if he stared for long enough. "Are you in danger?"

"No," she promised.

"Then I can probably keep the secret," he granted, sighing.

She also took a deep breath, hoping she wouldn't come to regret this. "I'm not alone," she said quietly. "I met someone in Tennessee, and I really like him."

"Dr. Monroe?" Joseph guessed, recalling the name from a few of her check-in calls. They seemed to have much in common, which gave him a small amount of relief at the time, to know she had made a friend, or something like it.

"No," she immediately shook her head. "This guy is my neighbor. Though, technically he lives in Nashville, but he's there in Gatlinburg on the weekends."

"I see," he said, taking care to keep his tone even.

"He's a carpenter. And he's sweet and he makes me feel safe and… not crazy."

"Does he have a name?"

"Rick," she said, smiling self-consciously as she revealed his identity. "Rick Grimes."

"Sounds… rustic," he joked.

"Don't be judgmental," Michonne said. "He's the best thing that's happened to me in… I don't know how long."

Joseph's eyebrow raised, unsure whether she was simply referring to the past year, or was it meant to say that she preferred this new fellow over the man she was going to marry? "Well I won't tell your mother," he assured her, squeezing her hand once more. "I don't think she'd understand."

Michonne nodded thankfully. "She already thinks I'm out of my mind," she chuckled.

"Well. I think she just got used to Negan, so I don't know how she'll react to this. Not with the way things have been these last few months."

"That's what I was concerned about."

"I just hope you're taking things slow with this 'Rick Grimes'," he said. "Even I don't know if jumping from one relationship to the next is the healthiest thing."

She nodded disappointedly this time. It was too late to take it slow. She was all in. She was glad she hadn't mentioned Carl yet – even her father probably wouldn't understand that. "It's not a relationship," she lied. "He's just… a guy I like."

Joseph kissed the top of his daughter's head and then affectionately pinched her cheek. "Then I'm glad you found a guy you like, darling girl."

"Thanks, Daddy."

"I should go see your sister," he said, letting out an exaggerated, peeved exhale. "You should go start getting ready for the party. You know how you are."

Michonne chuckled weakly. "Do I have to go?" she asked. "I have no problem staying upstairs out of the way."

"How do you think your mother would feel about that?"

Michonne exhaled, also in a show of her discontent. "Fine."

* * *

A few hours later, the Godard's Christmas party was well underway, with what Michonne estimated to be every Black person in Grinnell scattered throughout their home, socializing amid a spread of food and alcohol, music and games. For the occasion, her mother, unsurprisingly, went all out, donning her fanciest dress – a black, tea-length Givenchy gown with a long history, as it was handed down from her own mother. She wrapped her short locs in a headdress with a festive red and green print, while her makeup and jewelry – a simple pair of pearl earrings – remained understated. Yvonne, on the other hand, decked herself out in gold, from her knee-length bodycon dress, to her necklace and heels. Rose forced her to wear a duster with it so she looked less like a Kardashian, but it didn't do much to tone down the gaudiness of it all. Michonne was on the subtler side of her mother and sister, dressed in a loose-fitting navy jumpsuit, paired with red pumps. She kept her hair in the same low ponytail as the day before, but forced herself into some makeup – eyeliner and lipstick – nothing fancy, but enough to make her look alive. It was also the first time she'd worn heels in a year and felt unsteady in them.

Which was only partly the reason she spent most of the evening sitting in a quiet corner of the dining room, alone at first, watching guests as they wandered in and out, picking over food and drink; and then, as the evening turned to night, on the phone with Rick. He'd called her during his layover in Atlanta, and she was going to keep him on the phone until she absolutely had to let him go.

"You know what I thought was really nice?" she commented. There'd been a pause in the conversation as they waited for a gate announcement to complete.

"What's that?" Rick asked.

"Ezekiel texted me today to say 'Merry Christmas'," she said, smiling at the thought. "It made my day."

"That is nice," he agreed. "He didn't even text me."

"Oh, yeah right," she chuckled.

"He didn't," Rick insisted. "It may be because we talked over FaceTime, but that's beside the point."

"Oh god, shut up," she continued to laugh. "I was trying to share my geeky moment with you."

"Well I appreciate that, since you don't share much else."

Michonne rolled her eyes, but was glad he couldn't see her. "Don't ruin Christmas, Rick."

"Well you kinda started it by hangin' up on me, but it's fine."

"Fair enough," she said, hoping the sarcasm she heard in his voice was playful. "I'll make it up to you."

"How?" he asked.

She smiled, knowing she had him on the hook now. "I can't say it out loud; these people might hear me," she whispered. "But I will."

"Text it to me."

"Oh god. Okay," she quietly laughed, pulling the phone from her ear to type out the lascivious message. Something he could think about on his flight and the subsequent week. She had an impish smirk on her face as her fingers tapped at the screen, explaining how she had every intention of deepthroating his dick the second he returned from his trip.

"You're smiling at that phone like it's gonna take you home tonight," Yvonne announced, both interrupting and startling her sister.

Michonne had been so engrossed in her texting, she didn't see her sister coming, and instantly deflated in her presence. "Shut up," she said, feeling like every bit the younger sibling she was for not having a better comeback.

"Fine, you can sit in here looking dickmatized if you want," she said. "But Mommy wants you in the living room."

"I'll be there in a minute," Michonne said, having no intention of actually doing so. She waited until Yvonne finished sashaying out of the room before returning to her call. "Hey."

"Who was that?" Rick chuckled, having overheard the mildly contentious exchange.

"My fucking sister," she murmured, taking care to ensure the guests couldn't hear her cursing.

"I didn't know you had a sister," he said. Seemed like something she could've mentioned anytime in the past few months…

"That's because she's terrible, and I like to pretend she doesn't exist."

"I see."

"She just… showed up," she said, still annoyed by the 'surprise.' "We haven't seen her in  _years_ , she only calls our parents when she needs something. But she comes in on Christmas to surprise them, and suddenly, all of her bullshit flies out of the window."

"Is she your younger sister?"

"She acts like it, but no," Michonne said. "She's four years older than me."

"Oh. Shit."

"Yeah," she softly scoffed.

"How long has that been goin' on?" he wondered.

"Well, she left home when I was fourteen. She was supposed to be going to NYU, but after about three months, she dropped out and moved to LA with some guy," Michonne explained. "But of course she still took our parents' tuition checks. I figured it out when she came home for Christmas break, in what was supposed to be her second year, and… I dunno. We've been at each other's necks ever since, I guess."

"Hm." Rick couldn't help but feel like it was nice to get some background on her upbringing, even if it wasn't the most healthy or happy aspect of it. It gave him insight as to who she was and why.

"Don't say 'Hm' like you think I sound crazy."

"That's not what I was doing," he laughed. "I'm just takin' mental notes."

"And what do these notes say?"

"That your sister's not invited to Christmas next year. Her and my dad," he said. " _Ils ne sont pas les bienvenus_."

Michonne laughed. Not only at his southern-tinged attempt at French, but at the smile in his voice as he said it. "I'm gonna miss you so much."

"I am too," he nodded onto the phone, his tone turning serious. "I already do."

She closed her eyes, taking in the sound of Rick's voice, imagining he was sitting there next to her, his presence keeping her warm and sane as always. There was another announcement on the loudspeaker – his flight beginning to board, and with him in first class, she knew he'd be one of the first groups to go. She wanted to tell him about how she'd mentioned him to her dad. She was pretty sure he'd be glad to hear that. But maybe it was best not to broach the subject, not when he hadn't brought it up himself. Especially when she was still keeping his existence from her mother.

Before she could decide what to do, what to say, Yvonne was back in the dining room, peering at her younger sister, still on the phone. "Michonne."

"What?" she snapped back, annoyed at her for interrupting her last few moments with Rick.

"Mom is  _waiting_ ," she reminded her. "She's trying to make her toast."

"Oh, shit," Michonne said, popping up from her chair. It was pure luck that her mother wasn't the one who'd come to get her this time. "Okay."

"Get off the phone."

"Get out," she retorted. "I'll be out in thirty seconds."

"Does Mommy know you have a boyfriend?"

_Fuck_. The last thing she needed was Yvonne going off and telling her mother some half-truth she'd concocted. "Sasha, I have to go," she said to Rick pointedly, but regretfully. "Have a safe trip," she added. "I love you. And I'll see you soon."

Rick let out a curt sigh, unsure how to reply. Was that 'I love you' for him? Or 'Sasha'? "Telling the truth can't possibly be worse than this," he said.

Michonne chuckled, feigning levity when she very much wanted to cry. She hated doing this to him. "I'll tell you all about it when you get back," she said, hoping he'd understand. She didn't want his vacation, or for that matter, their limited conversations over the next week, to be colored by this.

"All right," he reluctantly relented, understanding that she did have to go and so did he. "Take care of yourself, Michonne."

"You too," she whispered, finishing the call and staring at the phone as the screen changed from black to white, all while her sister watched.

"Is Sasha the lesbian?" Yvonne casually asked, picking up a cookie for herself before they could leave.

"Yeah," Michonne said, oblivious to her reason for the question.

"So you're… is that what you're doing now? Is that why you left your man?"

Michonne was too irritated to even dignify her question with an answer, and instead, went to rejoin the party as obligated. There, Rose was indeed standing in the middle of the room, their father at her side, gazing at her as if they'd just fallen in love yesterday. They'd been together 42 years, and here Michonne was, barely able to make it with someone she liked for four months without fucking it up. Still, she liked to imagine that could be her and Rick one day. Maybe it was silly to think – a year ago, she assumed the same about Negan. Or tried to, anyway. But now, it was actively what she  _wanted_. Even if it did sound like some fairytale. Sometimes they came true. Didn't they?

As she stood there thinking about Rick and not at all listening to her mother's toast, she went back to her phone and the explicit message she'd never sent thanks to the intrusion from her sister. She erased it and typed in something more meaningful instead:  _Just so you know, that "I love you" was real._ He replied within about a minute _._

_Well then that was anticlimactic as hell. But  
_ _I guess I'll take it. For now. ;)_

_Lol. Merry Christmas, Rick._

_Merry Christmas, Michonne._

* * *

 

" _What are you eatin' right now, Carl?"_

_With his mouth full, the youngster smiled brightly as he answered, "A croissant!"_

" _And you like it?"_

" _I **love**  it," he said. "There's so much good bread in France, Michonne!"_

" _But you know that we have these back home, right," Rick asked. "And that you've always refused to eat them?"_

" _The ones back home don't have chocolate in them."_

" _Some of them do," Rick chuckled._

" _Oh," Carl answered flatly. "Well. I didn't know that."_

_Rick laughed and turned the camera back to himself for a brief moment. "Four days in another country and the thing he's been most excited about is somethin' he can get at home," he commented._

" _They taste better here!" Carl insisted, despite never having had one in the US. "This is the real thing."_

_Rick turned the camera back on his son. "What else have you discovered in France?"_

" _Orangina!" he said, excitedly holding up his bottle of the carbonated citrus drink._

" _Anything not related to food?"_

_He gasped, realizing he was forgetting the best part. "I met Mickey and Minnie," he said to the camera. " **And**  Buzz and Woody,  **and all**  the Disney princesses," he went on, his enthusiasm growing with each syllable. " **And**  there's a whole Marvel section of the park that we're gonna go today."_

" _Tell her about your favorite ride," Rick suggested._

" _Pirates of the Caribbean! Michonne, it's the best ride," Carl said, practically yelling in excitement. "When you first walk in, you're in, like, this dungeon, and they show all these skeletons of prisoners that died in their cells. And then, the actual ride is this boat, but it's like a rollercoaster, and it takes you through a whole exhibit and you see pirates and more rotted skeletons and shipwrecks and stuff from the movies. It's so creepy and cool," he grinned. "We have to come back so you can go on it with us."_

" _Tell her how many times you've been on it already," Rick chuckled._

" _Six times!" Carl said. "And the line is always **so**  long. But it's worth it!"_

" _Today's gonna be our first day not goin' on it," Rick commented to his phone, "so we'll see how that goes."_

" _I dunno if I'm gonna make it, Dad," Carl said as he took another big bite of his croissant. "I miss it already."_

" _You already promised you'd give somethin' else a try," Rick smirked._

" _Okay," he sighed heavily._

" _And we should actually be gettin' ready to go," Rick said, "so I'm gonna hop in the shower. Say goodbye to Michonne."_

_Carl waved at the camera with a chocolatey grin, "Au revoir, Michonne! Hope you're having fun in Idaho!"_

" _Iowa," Rick corrected him in a whisper._

" _Iowa," he said. "I can't remember the states, Dad. I'm French now."_

_Laughing, Rick turned the camera back on himself and blew Michonne a little kiss, finishing it with a wave. "We miss you. See you soon."_

Michonne was grinning from ear to ear as the video ended and suddenly, her two favorite people were gone. Rick had been sending her little videos and pictures throughout the trip – them visiting the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Montmartre – allowing her to feel like she was there with them in some small way. And watching the two of them eat breakfast in their lavish hotel suite, telling them about their days, it definitely did the trick. After the week she'd had, she  _needed_  it.

Her time in Iowa had gone by so slowly, each day seeming longer than the one before it. It didn't help that Michonne was avoiding being alone with her mother or anywhere near her sister, which meant much of her time was spent in her room, or in her father's office, pretending to be working or reading. He would come by every now and then, sometimes with food, just to check on her, he said; but for the most part, she was alone. Her parents insisted she didn't eat enough or talk enough, and they were right. There, she didn't do much of either. She could feel herself slipping. Back to the person she was with Negan. And that was the last thing she wanted after all the work she'd done to come back to life.

Much like in Tennessee, the only thing to truly keep her smiling was Rick. He would call every evening, despite it being past midnight in Paris, for brief but significant conversations, as he regaled her with details of his adventures in a foreign country. She could hear the wonder in his voice as he spoke of discovering a different culture and even the tiniest contrasts between France and the States. He told her of how he always attempted French when asking questions of the locals, but many didn't have the patience for it, and generally ended up communicating in English anyway. He was also surprised that most French people didn't hate Americans as he assumed – many of the people he met seemed to find him charming and wanted to know more about him and his life back home. This was no surprise to Michonne, of course, because Rick  _was_  charming; his accent alone could be disarming. Through their nightly conversations, Michonne also found out that Rick used to smoke cigarettes, as he spoke of how all the smokers in the city were tempting him to go back to it – he stopped when Lori got pregnant, but it wasn't easy, he said. He told her he missed driving himself around, and her most of all, but she could tell he was having fun. She never had much to add to the conversation, nothing more than commentary on his experiences, but their calls were the highlights of her days. She wasn't sure she would've gotten through her time in Iowa with her sanity intact otherwise.

But she did get through them, and it was time to head to Atlanta to ring in the New Year with her friends. She was less nervous and more excited about this part of the trip – getting to hang out with her bestie for the first time in months. They hadn't spoken much in the last few weeks, busy with holidays and family things, so she was glad they'd be getting some much-needed face time over the next week.

"All right," Michonne announced to no one in particular as she made her way downstairs with her luggage in tow. "I think I'm ready."

"Have you checked your flight status recently?" her father asked, coming from the kitchen to join her in the foyer. "We may not need to leave just yet, you know."

She didn't want to tell him that she'd rather sit in the airport all night than stay in that house any longer, so she just smiled. "I think we should probably go."

"Very well," he sighed, sad to see his daughter leave. It felt like it had been a lifetime since she'd been home without her fiancé, and these few days had gone by so quickly. "Rosie, she is ready to go!" he called upstairs to his wife.

"Okay," Rose sent back after a short pause.

"She's going to miss you," Joseph told Michonne. "She's enjoyed having you here."

"Who are you trying to convince here, Daddy?" Michonne smirked. She took the free moment to survey the rest of the house, ensuring she wasn't leaving anything important. Not that she spent much time downstairs, or even had anything important, save for her phone, and her gifts from Rick and Carl. That was when it dawned on her that she'd left her phone charging upstairs. She wanted a full battery for her travels, but also in case Rick called. It was nearing their usual time.

"Michonne, you left your phone up here!" Rose called down, just as she was headed up. Rose had been giving her room a once-over, ensuring that it was left it in the same manner it was given. "It's ringing!"

"Thanks, Ma!" Michonne said. "I'm coming to get it."

"You left your… amla oil too," she added, examining the strange jar. "I thought we were still using coconut oil."

"I hate coconut oil," Michonne said to herself.

As Rose continued to examine the room, she noted the name displayed on her daughter's vibrating phone. "The caller ID says it's someone named Rick," she submitted.

Suddenly, Michonne was racing up the steps, despite her heavy coat and boots, wanting to catch the call before Rick could hang up. But she should've been more concerned with catching the call before her mother did. When she returned to her room, Rose was already on the phone, smiling at the voice on the other end. Michonne inwardly wondered if that was what she looked like when she spoke to him. "Ma, I can take it," she offered.

Rose held up her index finger, ignoring her request. "No, no, you're no bother at all," she said into the phone. "We were just about to take her to the airport, but she hasn't quite gotten all of her things together yet."

"Mommy," Michonne said anxiously, worried about what was being said on the other end of the call. "Please give me my phone."

"Oh, that's so sweet," she grinned, still disregarding her daughter. "I like to think she does take after me."

"Ma!"

"Well Rick, it was so nice talking to you," Rose said, "but I have Michonne here, and she seems eager to speak to you, so I'm going to let you go." She laughed at something else he said before nodding into the phone. "You take care, too," she said. "Bye-bye." And with that, she finally handed the device to her daughter. "Who is that?" she whispered.

"He's Rick," Michonne answered plainly. She was being purposely vague, as she was clear her mother already knew his name.

"Yes, but who  _is_  he," Rose repeated. "Have we replaced your fiancé already? Is this why you won't speak to him?"

"No," Michonne sighed sharply, frustrated. It was just her luck that she got through her entire trip without having to address this, only to have her cover blown at the very last minute. This wasn't a conversation she wanted to have, and certainly not on the way to the airport. "He's nobody," she said quietly, hoping, by some miracle, that Rick couldn't hear her. "Just… my neighbor."

Rose raised a suspicious eyebrow, but let her go since she hadn't heard anything about him prior to this. "I'll be downstairs with your father," she said. "Don't be too long."

"I won't," Michonne said. Little did she know, she wouldn't be any time at all, as when she returned to the call, Rick was gone. She stared at the screen, wanting to believe that it was somehow frozen. "Hello?" she said, predictably hearing nothing in return. She called him back, just in case they simply were disconnected by accident, but the knot in her stomach already knew better. After several rings, the call went to voicemail. She tried again. Straight to voicemail. She sent him a text.  _Hey, I'm sorry about that. Please call me back when you can._

She waited for a response for several minutes before heading back downstairs. Nothing. Getting her bags to the car, saying a hostile goodbye to her sister, and getting on the road – still nothing. They made it all the way to the airport, an hour away, and even as she knew it was nearing 2:00 am in Paris, Michonne checked her phone every 45 seconds for a reply. Nothing.  _Shit_.

* * *

"All right, so everybody's clear on what we're doing tomorrow?" Sasha asked, looking around her living room at her friends. "Michonne?"

Her head instantly shot up at the sound of her name, frowning in response to it. "Why are you singling me out?" she asked.

"Because you've been so preoccupied with Jon Snow, I'm not really sure you're paying attention."

"Well I am," Michonne assured her before returning her attention to the cocker spaniel in her lap. She always thought Jon Snow was such a fitting name for the dog, despite her being a girl, solely because of her pretty black coat. Michonne had missed her since she'd been gone, and continued to pet her, running her fingers through the wavy fur of her ears as she listened to the New Year's Eve plans being made.

"Shit, she has an appointment at the groomer tomorrow," Rosita suddenly remembered. "We don't have that on the list."

"She has an appointment on New Year's Eve? Who the hell scheduled that?" Sasha said.

"She's always the last day of the month," Glenn cut in to remind her. "But I don't have time to do it tomorrow."

"I don't either," Rosita said.

"I can take her," Michonne offered, raising her hand. Not only would she look forward to spending the time with the sweet puppy, but it would make her feel useful, instead of just taking up space in their home all week. "I could probably find a pet-friendly Uber or Lyft."

"I thought you were gonna come with me to Costco," Sasha said, offended that she was blowing her off already.

"Well I can," Michonne replied, surprised by how hurt she sounded. But she had to remind herself that Sasha  _was_  hurt. Because Negan wasn't the only one she left when she went to Tennessee. She'd left her best friend behind, and even if they were back in the same place, getting their face time, it was going to take more than a day to rebuild that trust. "I mean if you want me to, I will," she offered.

"You guys can just drop her off on the way to Costco," Rosita suggested. "By the time you actually get out of there, Jonny'll probably be done."

"I guess that works," Sasha said, still eyeing Michonne. "Y'all know we can't have her going off in cars and shit. Next thing we know, she'll be halfway to Nebraska or something."

Michonne felt the sting from the low blow, but she took it like a champ and smiled. "Very funny," she nodded. "Yes, yes, I'm a flight risk."

"We need to get you one of those house arrest anklets," Sasha continued to joke. "So it shocks you anytime you leave Atlanta city limits."

"Like one of those chips we were gonna get for Jon Snow," Rosita laughed.

"So now I'm the  _dog_  in this scenario," Michonne nodded. "Cool, cool, cool."

"Except Jon Snow has never run away from home," Glenn interjected, also laughing at the conversation.

"You guys are assholes," Michonne chuckled, shaking her head now. "If I wanted to be insulted all weekend, I would've stayed in Iowa."

Sasha looked at her friend knowingly. "You mean to tell me we're worse than Yvonne?"

"Oh, no. You right," Michonne immediately relented, giggling. "You are absolutely right."

"Wait, who's Yvonne?" Rosita wondered.

"Her evil sister," Glenn answered casually. "We don't talk about her."

"Only Yvonne we acknowledge is Orji."

Michonne made a face. "I don't know enough about her to be claiming her like that."

"I thought you were gonna say Yvonne Strahovski," Rosita said. "She's so great on  _The Handmaid's Tale_."

"Oh, that's so good," Sasha agreed enthusiastically. "Did you ever get a chance to watch that?" she asked Michonne.

"No," Michonne frowned. She was surprised Sasha had forgotten that they tried to watch it earlier in the year, but it was just far too bleak. Certainly for Michonne. She couldn't sit around watching a bunch of women exist solely to get pregnant, only to have their babies taken away. "I haven't watched anything lately," she said instead.

"Oh yeah," Sasha recalled. "She doesn't have time for TV since she met  _Rick_ ," she teased.

Michonne had to work hard not to visibly react at the mention of his name. It had been a full day and she still hadn't heard from him. He was clearly angry at her, and all the texts she was sending weren't going to fix it. "I don't have a TV in my house," she explained to Rosita and Glenn.

"I can't believe  _you've_  been living without a TV for six months," Glenn said.

"I'm honestly not even sure if I can get cable up there," she said. "But the WiFi works okay, so I've been thinking I'll probably invest in a good smart TV sometime soon."

"Really?" Rosita asked. She grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table in front of them and then curled back up on her end of the couch. "Aren't you gonna be coming back to Atlanta soon?"

"Well she'd still need a TV when she comes back," Glenn submitted. "It's not like she's going back to her old house."

"Oh, that's true."

"Well, no," Michonne intervened before they could decide any more of her life for her. "I actually – I'm planning… to stay in Tennessee," she said slowly. She purposely avoided looking at Sasha as she spoke, for fear of her reaction.

"You're what?" Sasha asked pointedly.

"I'm gonna s- I'm staying," she stuttered. "For the foreseeable future, at least."

"You're gonna stay in Bumblefuck, Tennessee," she said, her flat tone conveying her indignance. "For some guy none of us know? Or have even met?"

"For a number of reasons," Michonne sighed. If this was going to be an argument, she hated that they had to have it in front of Glenn and Rosi. "And yes, Rick is one of them," she granted. "Crazy as it may sound, I fell in love with him. And I wanna be there with him."

"You do sound crazy," Sasha shot back.

"That's not true," Rosita said, gently swatting at her girlfriend for being so petty. "Lesbians fall in love in like a week," she joked awkwardly. "You can't help who you love."

Michonne smiled at her weakly, appreciating her attempt at defending her.

Glenn was playing with Jon Snow's tail as he tried to think of something diplomatic to say. On the one hand, he was glad for Michonne. Since she left, he'd hoped she was happy, and it seemed like she had been. But he also didn't want to get into this spat between best friends. "Well, can we meet him?" he asked. "So we can give our approval."

Michonne smiled. Unlike with her parents, she welcomed the idea of Rick getting to meet her friends. She  _wanted_  it. His life, his style, it would mesh well with them, she thought. Sasha was so excited when she heard that he knew Ezekiel King. She wasn't sure what happened to that. "I'd like that," Michonne nodded. "I've met his son. His brother. His baby mama," she smirked. "I'd really love to show you guys off."

"His son?" Glenn asked, surprised to hear it.

"Yeah, he has an eight-year-old," she grinned, thinking of him. "Carl."

"Shit," he said, unsure whether to be impressed or worried by that.

"How come you didn't bring him with you?" Rosita wondered. "This would've been the perfect time to meet him."

"Oh, he took Carl to Paris for Christmas," Michonne shook her head. "So it seemed like a good time for me to come see y'all."

"That sounds  _nice_ ," she nodded in admiration.

Sasha sat there in silence, annoyed as she listened to Michonne speak of her new boyfriend like she didn't have a whole fiancé to reconcile with. She knew more about Rick than probably anyone, and had even been happy for her friend, but she was more under the impression she was having fun with this guy and getting some good dick in the process. Not falling in love, to the point where she was willing to relocate permanently for this dude. She wanted to stay quiet; she tried to. But couldn't. "So you found all this time and courage to fall in love with some stranger," Sasha said, "but you still can't talk to Negan?"

The lightness of the conversation immediately ceased and Michonne stared at her friend. She could hear the irritation in her tone, so she made sure to keep hers at bay. "I know," she said, accepting that charge. "I did a shitty thing. And I'm here to atone for it now."

"We're not the only ones you have to answer to," Sasha replied.

"I'm gonna talk to him," Michonne promised. "I'll be back in Atlanta in a few weeks to get the rest of my things. And I'll talk about whatever he wants," she said. "For as long as he wants."

Sasha rolled her eyes. "You always have a reason to put it off."

"Until a few days ago, I wasn't even willing to talk to him, so I'm not sure how you got there," Michonne said.

"You know what I mean."

"Isn't he in New York anyway?" she asked. He spent every Christmas at home, so she couldn't imagine why this year – especially after everything he'd been through – would be any different. "I feel like this should be a face-to-face conversation at this point."

"That's true," Rosita said. "Unless you're scared he's gonna hit you. Then you need to do that shit over the phone."

"I'm not," Michonne returned, cutting her eyes in her direction.

"So you're telling me that if he were in Atlanta, you'd talk to him now?" Sasha asked.

Michonne shrugged. This was about the last thing on her mind when she had to deal with Rick giving her the silent treatment. "I mean… sure. If it was what he wanted. He would deserve that."

Sasha rolled her eyes again, not believing a word she said. She'd avoided even answering his texts since she left, and suddenly, she was all happy and healthy and ready to talk? Whatever. "I guess you're lucky he's in New York then," she said, sighing.

* * *

The next morning, Michonne was up with the sun, and long before her friends were even thinking of getting out of bed. Which was funny, since she'd been an hour behind them for the last few weeks. But Carl liked to wake up early, which meant she and Rick had to have their fun even earlier. So even when she didn't have class, it had become the norm for her to be up and at 'em by 7:00.

And there it was. Rick.  _Fuck_. She'd been trying hard not to think about him, not wanting to spoil her limited time with her friends, but it was so difficult not to. She  _hated_  not talking to him. It wasn't like last time, where they were both being stubborn and not speaking to each other. This time, she had a text message thread full of sent texts with no response to show for it. Just a wall of her words, shrouded in blue. Maybe he was just enjoying Paris; perhaps he'd lost his phone – she liked to imagine him dropping it in the Seine and hating that he had no way to get in touch with her. But she was pretty sure he was mad at her. And he had a right to be. She didn't just avoid telling her mother about him; she called him nobody. When it couldn't be further from the truth. He was everything. But she pushed. Too far. And she worried that showing up at his home unannounced wasn't going to work the second time around.

So she did her best to push him out of her mind – there was nothing she could do until he was home anyway. And so, at 8:00 in the morning, she found herself standing at the edge of Sasha's porch with Jon Snow, preparing to take the dog for a short walk. She was wrapped in one of Glenn's Tech sweatshirts, along with her own coat and Uggs over her pajamas, and she was still freezing. Atlanta had just recently experienced one of their infamous snowstorms that shut down the entire city for several days, so there was still ice hanging around in certain corners of the neighborhood. But Michonne liked it out there, the crispness of the air. Sasha and Glenn – and now, Rosita, she supposed – lived in Inman Park, one of the coolest, cutest areas of town, with its vintage Victorian homes and endless selection of eclectic restaurants. Michonne liked to explore it whenever she could. It was nice to just clear her mind and refamiliarize herself with her old stomping grounds.

As she accompanied Jon Snow down and around the block, politely waving at passersby, she thought of Negan. How he'd suggested getting a dog to aid in her depression. It wasn't the worst idea in the world, but at the time, it just felt like he was trying to replace their dead son with a terrier and she hated him for it.

She hated him for a lot of things, she'd realized. Quietly. Secretly. She loved him until she didn't. And when she didn't, everything, from the way he spoke, to the way he tied his shoes – so tight, it made his feet look deformed – bothered her. It wasn't fair to him, but it was why she allowed herself to walk away that way. She'd stopped caring.

She had the opposite problem with Rick, which was why it stung so much every time she thought about the fact that he was ignoring her.

It was a bit ironic, being ignored now by this man she loved. As Lucille would say,  _you lose 'em how you get 'em_. Michonne had to laugh. To keep from crying.

Jon Snow made quick work of doing her business, probably feeling like it was too cold to be out there for too long. When they returned to the house, Michonne let the pup back inside, while she opted to stay out on the porch. There were two rocking chairs sitting out there – something she'd never noticed until she started feeling haunted by them – and she took a seat in the one closest to the door. She closed her eyes and sharply inhaled the cold air; when she exhaled, tears came with it. Not surprising, considering her circumstances and the week she was having. But she wished her plan to keep laughing had worked for a little longer.

"Did she poop?"

Michonne didn't turn when the door opened and Sasha's voice followed, but she nodded in response. "Yep."

"Did you pick it up," she asked. "We get fined if we don't pick it up."

"Of course," Michonne replied, pointing to the dark green garbage can at the end of their driveway. "I threw it away."

Satisfied with that answer, Sasha crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to shield herself from the cold. "You want some coffee?"

The brusqueness of her tone, combined with the grogginess in her voice, made Michonne chuckle to herself. She could tell Sasha was still mad at her, though she still wasn't sure why. Perhaps she just didn't want her to move to Tennessee permanently, and was veiling it in this protest to Rick for Negan's sake. The girl was so needlessly stubborn sometimes. "Sure," Michonne said.

Sasha nodded. "Come inside before you catch pneumonia."

"You know that's not how that works," Michonne replied, flexing her knowledge of infectious disease as she followed her friend inside.

The two of them went straight for the kitchen, where Michonne took her usual seat on the bench of the kitchen table, and Jon Snow came to lay at her feet. The table was made of a beautiful, rich cherrywood, and though the design was pretty basic, it made her think of Rick – something he would make. It made her smile when she realized, because of him, she knew the type of wood without even thinking. She'd sat at this table hundreds of times, but today was the first time she'd considered it anything more than just another table.

"What are you over there grinning about?" Sasha wondered.

"Just remembering the last time we were all here for that girl's night," she lied. "When we were playing Cards Against Humanity, and that door randomly shut?"

Sasha chuckled as she recalled it too. Six drunk women, in the middle of a rousing, hilarious game, when a door upstairs slammed loudly. They were certain someone was coming to kill them, causing their friend Jessie to let out one of those horror movie screams, while Rosita went so far as to drop to the floor. It was a full minute of terror before they realized they'd left a window open and a simple gust of wind was the culprit. "We laughed until tears were rolling down our faces," she grinned sleepily. "Shit."

"That was a good night," Michonne said. Though that hadn't really been what was on her mind, thinking of it now left her aching for that time again.

"You know Jessie's marrying that doctor," Sasha asked. Though her disapproval was apparent.

Michonne winced. "What was his name again?"

"Pete," she shook her head, rolling her eyes at the same time. " _Doctor Anderson_."

"Why?" Michonne asked, also obviously disturbed by the notion. None of their friends liked him, which said everything anyone should need to know.

"Desperate," Sasha shrugged. "Not everyday you find a single, kind of attractive doctor, I guess."

Michonne made another face. 'Attractive' was pushing it. "Do we think she might… be pregnant?" she hesitantly suggested. She just couldn't think of any other valid reason Jessie would do this.

"I hope not," Sasha said. "Then there's no chance of her backing out."

Michonne shrugged, thinking of her own experience. She watched Sasha putter around the small kitchen, preparing her favorite Ethiopian coffee for four. Two cups each, even though Sasha was the only one who ever drank more than one. She sat there wondering whether to bring up the elephant in the room, being their spat from the night before. It was a minor thing, really, as evidenced by the fact that they were talking like it never happened. But it felt like something hanging over them. Like a cloud looming, knowing it could give way to rain at any second. She'd been so excited to see her friend, feeling like it would be a respite after her time at home. But it was just a different type of stress. Things weren't the same between them. It was probably silly of her to think they would be, but it didn't stop her from wishing they were.

"Sash," Michonne called out to her.

"Yep," she replied distractedly as she padded to her pantry.

"Do you think you'll ever forgive me?" she asked. Her voice sounded much thinner than she intended.

Sasha turned around, taken aback by the question. If she hadn't forgiven her, she wouldn't be sitting there.

"I know you're not necessarily angry with me," Michonne appended. "Or at least, I don't think you are. But… it feels strained between us. It feels like you don't really trust me anymore."

Sasha only blinked, not having an answer for her. Because maybe she was right. "I haven't really thought about it," she said. "But instinctually… subconsciously, maybe I don't."

Michonne nodded. "I can't blame you," she said. "I shouldn't have expected it to be as easy as a few phone calls every week."

"You abandoned us," Sasha said. This time it was her voice that was weak. "That shit hurt."

"I know," she whispered.

"And I know I've disappeared on you before, but never for this long. Never like this."

"I know," she repeated.

"So I don't know," Sasha admitted. "I can't imagine that I would never forgive you," she said. "But if you stay in Tennessee… I really don't know how."

Michonne inhaled sharply, surprised to hear that her decision to stay in Tennessee was a serious factor. Did that mean she could never leave Atlanta if she wanted to remain friends? It felt like she was being given an ultimatum in so many words, and she didn't like it. "I'm gonna go take a shower," she said, deciding to cap the conversation there. This had given her a lot to think about. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Sure," Sasha said, watching her untangle herself from Jon Snow. She didn't even wait until the coffee finished brewing before running off. But at this point, she'd be more surprised if Michonne didn't run off.

* * *

Another holiday evening, another party. Michonne was exhausted of them already. She had only been to two in the last week, but that was two more than she'd attended all year. The time she spent at UT reacquainted her with turning on her charm when she wanted to, but the problem was, most of the time, she didn't want to.

At least she didn't have to dress up for this party, she figured. It was a casual, 80s themed house party, which was actually pretty cute, in the end. The party host was a friend of Rosita's – a big, burly guy named Abraham, who had flaming red hair, spoke in a loud Houston accent, and smoked cigars, but he seemed all right. He had a big mansion up in Alpharetta – not particularly unique, as with most of the McMansions in metro Atlanta, but it was spacious. He had full rooms dedicated to different pop culture moments of the 80s –  _Thriller, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Coming to America, Back to the Future_. There was a  _Stranger Things_  exhibit, which Michonne found odd, as it was merely set in the 80s, but people seemed to enjoy it. Flat screens in each room played the respective videos on loop, with costumes available to guests, and even relevant food items. Michonne spent most of her evening figuring out Rubik's cubes, and had already consumed two purple cupcakes from the  _Purple Rain_  room. But she couldn't stay in there long, because it made her think of Rick, which only led her to drink. Which only led her to checking her phone every five minutes, as if he would suddenly change his mind and want to speak to her at 4:00 in the morning his time.

"Come play Jenga with me!" Glenn suggested when he found Michonne in the  _Coming to America_  room. She was standing in front of the TV with a glass of champagne, actually watching the movie. "'Chonne."

She glanced at Glenn slowly when she felt his hand on her back. "Huh?"

"Let's play Jenga," he repeated. "We have to catch it while it's still open."

Michonne was sluggish to respond after four glasses of champagne. "Okay… but I'm really bad at Jenga," she warned, hooking her arm into his. "I always have to have a partner."

"That's not true," Glenn said, escorting her to the game room as he took a swig of his own beer. "Just focus, keep a steady hand, and you'll be fine."

"Oh, Glenn," she sighed. "You're always so levelheaded. I love that about you."

"If only that were true," he smirked. The game room was empty for the time being, as most of the guests were participating in a limbo contest. Meanwhile, the Jenga table, which was really just a small coffee table with four chairs situated around it, hadn't recovered from the last game, so blocks were scattered everywhere. Glenn helped Michonne into one seat and then claimed the one across from her. "So I haven't gotten a chance to ask you how it's felt to be back in Atlanta," he said, attempting a conversation as they began to rebuild their tower. "Is it weird?"

"No," Michonne replied thoughtfully, but quickly reconsidered. "I mean, yes. It is. But it's nice, in a way, being somewhere that feels familiar."

Glenn nodded. "It always takes a couple of days for me to feel relaxed in a new place. Even if it's not a new place."

Michonne nodded, agreeing. She wanted to tell him that she was thinking about leaving a few days early, as in tomorrow, but a couple of their other friends – Gareth and Paul – had spotted them and were coming to join them, so she stopped herself.

"Shit, she really is here," Paul declared. He was delighted and surprised to see Michonne Godard in the flesh after all this time. He wrapped his arms around her before she could rise from her seat to give him a proper hug, and planted kisses along her face, his long hair falling over her. "Hey, gorgeous."

"Hey, yourself," she grinned, feeling warm from his embrace, but also the alcohol. "How are you?"

"I'm really good," he nodded, finally letting her go. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I moved to Tennessee," she said, mildly amazed to find that Sasha hadn't revealed the news to everyone they knew. She waved to Gareth, whom she didn't know quite as well, but she liked being surrounded by friendly, familiar faces.

"Fuck, I had no idea," Paul said, taking an empty seat at their table. "We heard you and Negan broke up, so I thought you were just laying low because of it."

"Oh, yeah. No, I'm teaching at UT right now."

"Go Vols!" Gareth submitted from the food table in the corner.

Michonne chuckled, remembering the first time someone said that to her and she had no idea what they were talking about. Spencer explained that the Volunteers, their school's mascot, were pretty much a religion in Tennessee, and certainly in their part of the state. She told Rick she wanted to go to a Lady Vols game this winter; maybe whenever they played Vanderbilt. She sighed, worried about whether that would actually happen now. And suddenly, her mind was back on Rick again; no longer in the room with her friends. She pulled her phone from her back pocket for the tenth time in an hour, praying that there'd be something from him waiting for her. Of course, there was nothing. She typed out another message, something to add to all the other unanswered ones, but then erased it. What could she say?  _I'm sorry_?  _I didn't mean it_?  _Let me fix this_? Done, done, and done. She started to just tell him 'Happy New Year', because she did genuinely hope his was. But if he didn't want to hear from her, a text from her would only start his year off wrong. Right?

"That's amazing," Paul commented, nodding enthusiastically. "It takes so much courage to just pack it up and start over somewhere new."

"It does," Glenn agreed, eyeing Michonne. He was fairly certain she wasn't paying any attention to them, but he hoped she knew just how proud they were of her. Sasha didn't know how to show it because she was hurt, and too obstinate to just say so. But the rest of them did understand why she needed to go. "If only she'd let us come visit," he added loudly, attempting to bring her back to the room from wherever she'd gone in her head.

Startled by his voice, Michonne did return to them. "What?" she asked.

"I was saying that we've been wanting to come visit you in Tennessee," Glenn said. "But you won't let us."

"You can visit me," she said brightly. Drunkenly. "I'm gonna drive back in the morning. You should come. Tennessee is  _beautiful_ ," she grinned. "A little racist, but… you know, find me a place that isn't."

"Wait, what?" Glenn frowned, dropping his Jenga block back to the table.

"The people can be racist," Michonne repeated, louder this time. "But it's nice, despite it."

"No, what do you mean you're leaving in the morning?" he said. "You're supposed to be here for three more days."

Michonne shrugged. "I wanna to go home."

Glenn sighed softly in disappointment. "I know Sasha has been… a lot. But you don't have to leave."

"It's not just about Sasha," she shook her head. In any other situation, she would've felt odd having this discussion in front of two people she considered acquaintances at best, but she was too inebriated to really care that Paul and Gareth were sitting there. "I… Rick is mad at me," she admitted. "And he comes back Tuesday, so I wanna be there when he gets home."

With a mouth full of a churro, Gareth asked, "Who's Rick?"

"He's a guy," Glenn answered, annoyed by the interruption. "Why is he mad at you?" he asked Michonne.

She chuckled, feeling silly, because the reason was so childish. So avoidable. "I wasn't ready to tell my parents about him," she said. "Well, my mother. Because she already thinks I'm out of my mind, and this news would've just exacerbated it."

Glenn took off the cap he was wearing and ran a stressed hand through his hair. He didn't have an answer for that.

"Parents just don't understand," Paul commented, shaking his head.

"She really wouldn't," Michonne agreed. "So I told her he wasn't anyone important, and he overheard, and... we haven't spoken since."

"That's a stupid thing to be mad about," Gareth said. "Is this a guy we like?"

"Yo," Glenn cut in, getting more frustrated with their intrusion by the second. "Could you guys excuse us for a minute?"

Michonne was surprised by his shortness – Glenn Rhee was always the picture of congeniality. She reached out to Paul before he could leave. "I'll come find you when we're done," she said. She was too drunk to realize she had no intention of keeping that promise.

"Take your time," he said, squeezing her hand.

She smiled politely at Gareth as he slipped away with his plate full of snacks and then turned back to Glenn. "I was fine with them staying," she said.

"They were getting on my nerves," he shook his head. "I just wanna know what's going on with you, without all the commentary."

"I mean, I think you got the gist of it," she shrugged again.

"So you're just gonna leave. Again."

"At least I'm telling you this time," she said defensively. "I told Sasha earlier and she seemed fine with it, so…"

"You know she's putting on an act, right?"

"Well I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Michonne said. "I came here excited to be with you guys, to be with  _her_ , and she's acting like I betrayed her. Because I fell in love with someone else? Because my path to healing didn't involve her?"

"I get it-"

"Did I fuck up?" Michonne continued, her voice raising with every sentence. "Yes.  _Sure_. But let's not act like she's been the perfect friend the last eighteen years. If I held everything against her that she'd ever done, we wouldn't be friends-"

"You're prob-"

"She's so fucking judgmental," she said, her loud words beginning to slur as they fell out of her mouth. "She's the one who encouraged me to pursue Rick. But as soon as she finds out it's serious, I'm a bad guy? Because of Negan? Someone she didn't even like for ninety percent of our relationship? Make. that. make. sense," she said, clapping with each word she spoke.

Glenn took a deep breath. He couldn't make it make sense, because it didn't. But he also knew that emotions, matters of the heart, weren't necessarily supposed to. "I can't," he admitted. "I can't make your actions make sense to Sasha either. All I know is, the reason you're both so hurt is that you love each other."

"Probably so," Michonne granted rigidly. "But I've got someone else to worry about now, and I'm not gonna keep apologizing for it."

"Rick," he guessed, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. He was so used to  _Michonne and Negan_ , the thought of her with someone else was hard to accept. He imagined that was some of what Sasha was going through, too. She wasn't the Michonne they knew.

Michonne nodded. There were butterflies in her stomach – and not the good kind – because she had no idea what she'd find when she returned to Tennessee. "Be honest with me," she pled quietly. "Do I seem crazy?" she asked. All the second-guessing from everyone else left her unsure. When a week ago, Rick was the only thing in her life she was sure about.

" _No_ ," Glenn promised her. "Before you got here, I can't even remember the last time I saw you smile. But you told us about Rick and it wouldn't leave your face," he said. "That's amazing, Michonne."

She replied with another smile, smaller and sadder than the one he spoke of. But she appreciated his honesty. "Should we play?" she asked, gesturing to the half-constructed Jenga set as she sat back in her chair.

"That was literally all I wanted to do," he said, grinning back at her. He sat his hat back on his head, backwards this time. "I wasn't prepared for... this," he joked, gesturing in her direction.

"Sorry," she said.

"By the way? I dunno if you were serious, but I'd be happy to drive back to Tennessee with you."

Michonne's face lit up. "Really?" she asked.

"I wasn't kidding when I said we've been wanting to come visit."

"Okay," she said, nodding excitedly. "Yeah. We can leave tomorrow, late morning?"

"Whatever you wanna do," he shrugged, resuming his assembly of the Jenga blocks. "I don't go back to work until next week, so I'm open."

"Nice," she grinned, suddenly hopping up with her empty champagne flute. "I'm gonna do a refill before we get started. You want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll take another Corona," he said, handing over his empty bottle for disposal.

She nodded and quickly headed out of the room toward the kitchen, where most of the drinks were being kept on ice. And for the first time all day, she felt some sense of peace again. Knowing that this time tomorrow, she'd be back where she belonged. It was a relief. And for Glenn to willingly be by her side meant a lot. Particularly when she felt so alone here.

But then, something happened. Her breath caught in her throat when she heard it. That voice. So immediately recognizable after all this time. She should've seen it coming; she  _would've_  had she not been so preoccupied with Rick and then Sasha. But instead, she felt like she'd been smacked in the face by it. She froze when she saw him. In the kitchen with Sasha, nodding at something she was saying. He was still swathed in his favorite leather jacket, a red scarf around his neck, so she could guess he hadn't been there long. But nevertheless, he was there. In the flesh. Negan.

Michonne dropped her champagne glass, feeling like she was being choked by the air, and Glenn's beer bottle immediately followed. She hoped the shattering sound couldn't be detected over the music coming from ten different directions, but no, he heard. He turned. And despite the 30-foot distance between them, their eyes locked.


	14. I'm Still in Love with You

**Chapter 16  
** **I'm Still in Love with You**

Negan felt his heart stop and restart in the instant he saw her. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, but in that very moment, he felt like he'd come back to life. "Shit," he breathed, suddenly nervous. He wanted to ask Sasha why the hell she didn't tell him Michonne was back in town, but he was too relieved to even care about the reasons. He immediately went to her, gazing at her gorgeous face, pieces of glass crunching under his feet as he met her in the middle of the hallway. "Jesus," he said, scratching at his grayish scruff. It was really her in the flesh. She wore a vibrant royal blue shirt that was truly brilliant against her dark skin. She was taller because of her boots, so she stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with him. When he wrapped his arms around her for a hug, they were cheek to cheek. He inhaled her. She smelled different. She felt different.

Michonne froze. She didn't – she couldn't – hug him back, feeling like she'd been dropped in the middle of one of her recurring nightmares. She'd dreaded this moment since the day she left, always imagining him showing up at her Gatlinburg door. Again, being in Atlanta, she should've prepared herself for this possibility. Her old home was all of eight minutes from Sasha's. But she was silly enough to think she was safe at some stranger's house, because why would he be here? She thought she knew Negan well enough to assume he'd continued with his usual traditions, because he loved spending the holidays in New York. In 38 years, there was only one where he wasn't there, and it was because his family went to Italy. But it was presumptuous of her to expect that she was the only one who'd changed. Maybe it was what she deserved for coming back so cavalierly; like there wasn't going to be a reckoning.

Still, that didn't stop her from feeling betrayed. She glared at Sasha as she watched from the kitchen, knowing that the woman she called her best friend had either invited Negan or knew he was coming. Either way, it was an act of war. She knew Sasha hadn't forgiven her. She'd made that much clear. But to actively go against her this way? She'd chosen a side. An angry tear slipped down Michonne's cheek when she realized, at the end of it all, her biggest lost may be her best friend.

Michonne swallowed hard as Negan squeezed her. His embrace only managed to make her miss Rick more, if that were possible. Negan's hug left her feeling empty, as if he were sucking the life from her. Sometimes it felt like that was their relationship, in the end. Devoid of romance or any type of longing. Just this cement in her soul, as her favorite book described it. A listlessness had settled in – certainly after Anthony, but she'd spent a lot of time questioning whether it was true of their relationship before him. She wrapped her arms around Negan briefly, if only to make it stop. To force him to let her go.

"You look great," he said as they pulled apart. He eyed her from head to toe. Her hair, she'd just retwisted it, he could tell. The leggings she wore told him she was back at her fighting weight, just a little thick in all the right places. And she was dressed like someone who wanted to be seen. She looked like the Michonne he knew before. Wherever she'd been, it'd obviously been good for her.

"You do too," she smiled politely. But he didn't. Of course, he always looked 'good'. He was an undeniably attractive guy. But he looked thin. Gaunt. Behind his glasses, she saw such tired eyes. Finally, she understood what her parents saw when they looked at her. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, but she froze again when Glenn walked into the hallway, and a couple of other people followed. People she didn't know. She suddenly felt like she was in a fishbowl being watched.

"Hey, man," Glenn cut in. He stepped in between herself and Negan to acknowledge him, much to Michonne's relief. "It's good to see you." He gave him one of those bro-hugs before turning back to her. "Michonne, our Uber's here," he said.

She stared at him with wide, thankful eyes. She was certain that wasn't true, because two minutes ago, they were planning to play Jenga. No way was a car there so quickly, and certainly not on New Year's Eve. He was coming to save her from this shit show. "Oh," she said, nodding, trying to convey her awareness of what was going on. "Okay."

"You're leaving already?" Negan asked. His disappointment was palpable. "It's not even midnight yet."

"I'm not having a great night," she admitted quietly. "Not because of you," she was quick to add. "I just have a lot going on…"

He nodded, seeming to understand. "Well if you're up to it tomorrow, I'd really like to see you for more than, you know, two minutes," he said, grinning.

And in an instant, Michonne remembered why she'd ever been taken with this man in the first place. That damn smile. It could light up a whole room. The afternoon they met, he flashed that smile, with those dimples, and she was instantly ready to risk it all. She knew even then he wasn't her type, but he liked her. He showed more interest than anyone had before. She liked being actively pursued. But it started with that smile.

And then, she thought of Rick. How differently they smiled. He didn't have perfect teeth like Negan – something that annoyed her to no end, because he'd never even had braces. Rick even had a bit of a snaggletooth, which she knew he hated, but she loved it. It gave his grin actual character. And more than that, when Rick smiled, it showed in his eyes. There was something infectious about the way they twinkled with his joy and amusement. He never smiled just to show off. When Rick smiled, he meant it. God, she missed him.

"Michonne?" Negan called out to her when she didn't respond.

"Um. Maybe," she nodded, running a confused hand over her face. "I don't know what my schedule is." She felt Glenn's hand on her back, ready to usher her out of the room. "You can call me," she offered.

"Are you gonna actually answer this time?" he smirked.

She replied with only an apologetic smile and then nodded to Glenn, assuring him that she was ready to go. But they only made as far as the foyer, her unsteady steps pounding against the unfamiliar wood floors, before she stopped. She was leaving a mess behind, and not just the glass on the floor. "Hold on," she said before her friend could sweep her away. She appreciated him so much for stepping in, but she needed to stop running. "I should talk to him."

"Are you sure?" Glenn asked, shutting the front door just as quickly as he'd opened it. "You're not exactly sober."

"Seeing him was pretty sobering," she chuckled quietly. She was still swaying a bit, but she was alert. Enough to know she and Sasha were going to have a problem. And more than anything, she wanted to leave this chaos in 2017 if she could. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Yeah," he nodded encouragingly. "Of course. Just text me when you're ready." As she took off to find Negan, Glenn followed behind, wanting to speak to Sasha while his ire over the situation was still fresh. He found her in the kitchen, where a group of people were refilling their drinks, and he pulled her aside by her forearm. "Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded quietly.

Sasha snatched her arm from him and frowned at his tone. "What's wrong with  _you_?" she asked.

"Why would you do that to Michonne?"

"I didn't do anything to her," Sasha said. "I invited a friend to a New Year's Eve party, because I thought he needed to get out of the house."

"Your friend," he repeated disbelievingly. "Since the hell when have you two been friends?"

"We've always been friendly," Sasha frowned again. "Not that we're close, but… he needed someone. You know what she did."

He shook his head, disappointed that she was treating the woman she called her best friend this way. "What did she do to you that was so bad?"

"It's not what she did to me," Sasha said, softening her tone. "It's not even really what she did to him, in the long run. I do think he deserves closure… he's been through just as much as she has, and nobody seems to give a shit. So I gave a shit," she shrugged. "But the bigger issue here, her running away, avoiding everything that happened? It isn't healthy," she said.

"She seems fine," he returned calmly.

"Oh please," she retorted. "She seems fine like a ticking time bomb seems fine until it goes off. Michonne likes Tennessee because it's easy. She likes this Rick guy because  _he's_  easy. He has nothing to do with Negan or Anthony or this shitty thing that she went through, so she can just pretend none of it ever happened. And that's not healing. That's letting a wound fester until it becomes an infection. And you people can coddle her all you want, but I'm not gonna sit here and let her make this shit worse. 'Moving to Tennessee'," she muttered mockingly. "No. That's ridiculous."

"So you just know everything," Glenn said sarcastically. "You know what's best for her, and she just has no idea, I guess."

"I don't think she's of sound mind," she admitted quietly. "So If she won't go to therapy, then I'll bring it to her."

"You can't do that to someone," he replied. "You can't just ambush her with her ex, the person she lost a  _child_  with, in front of a bunch of strangers, and think that's going to work out. If you really wanted to do an intervention – which, by the way, I think are really fucked up anyway – you should've done it in a comfortable, quiet place. You obviously had the forethought to concoct this little plan with Negan-."

"He didn't know either," she said, her voice getting even quieter as she avoided her friend's gaze. She didn't know Negan well enough to say whether or not he would've agreed, but she didn't want to take the chance.

"Then that's even worse," Glenn sighed. "You can be mad. You can make your little petty jokes about her leaving. But now you're fucking with people lives, dude."

"I'm trying to  _help_ ," she said.

Glenn nodded, figuring she probably believed that, too. "You keep telling yourself that, Sash."

Meanwhile, Michonne had gone on to find Negan, along with a much-needed bottle of water, and the two of them vanished to the front porch, where they traded heat for a bit of privacy, sitting side by side on the stoop steps. The Christmas lights bedecking the entire neighborhood made the scene feel warmer than it actually was. Neither of them knew how to start, so they just sat there awkwardly.

"Negan," Michonne decided to finally say, feeling frigid in more ways than one in the silence. "I'm really, really sorry," she shook her head. "You didn't deserve being deserted that way."

He smiled, appreciating getting to hear the words out loud. It had gotten to the point he didn't think he'd ever see her again, much less receive an apology. "I'm sorry for handling it so badly," he said, gazing at the side of her face. "You didn't deserve to be called names… sure as hell not what I called you."

"Your temper got the best of you," she said knowingly.

"That's a fucking terrible excuse," he chuckled. "But it's the truth."

She nodded. She knew him well enough to know that. It didn't stop it from hurting like hell at the time, back when she was too defeated to care about the gray areas of it all. Now that she had some space from it, and moreover, she'd made her own mistakes in saying things she didn't mean, she understood it. "It's okay," she shrugged.

"I'm just so damn happy you're home," he said, grinning. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but after so long, he didn't know where. Or how.

"Well I'm not home," Michonne was quick to say. Her voice was quivering and she didn't know whether it was because she was cold or just the discomfort of it all. He kept smiling at her, only making her feel more uneasy. "I'm just - I'm visiting," she said. "I'm heading back, I think tomorrow."

Negan nodded. That made sense – probably why Sasha didn't tell him she was in town. "I heard you were living in Dollywood," he submitted amusedly. "What must that be like?"

"It's near there," she smiled to herself, thinking of Rick. She never stopped thinking of Rick. "It's not Atlanta," she admitted, "but I like it. It's quiet." She looked over to him, the glow of the porch lights making his eyes look like they were aflame. "I needed quiet."

He smiled again, staring at her. She somehow seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Usually, your memory allows someone to seem better than reality. You forget all the bad things, all the flaws, leaving behind some perfect image. But Michonne  _was_  that perfect picture. Jesus. "Well… I'm ready whenever you're ready," he said. "Mom's been at the house since… shit, you know she had a stroke, right?"

Michonne nodded. She probably even deserved to be called a cunt after never checking in on her after that. "How is she?"

"Fine," he nodded, wanting to stay positive; at the time, he was scared to death, but now, she was fine. "It wasn't severe or anything. Just scared the shit outta me and Val," he said. "She was home by herself and barely made it to her phone. So I thought she should come down for a while. Until we figure some shit out."

"I'm so sorry," she replied, swallowing hard. She remembered all the arguments Negan and his sister had about what to do with their mother after their father passed. Lucille didn't want to leave New York, so Negan suggested her staying with Valerie. But his sister was a twenty-something in Manhattan, and understandably, didn't want to live with her mother. Michonne didn't envy that dilemma – especially now that their mother had experienced an actual health scare.

"Welcome to fuckin' adulthood, right," Negan sighed. "Anyway, my point was, I'm sure she'd love to see you. But you know, take your time. You needed space, quiet, I understand that now." He chuckled to himself again. "Hell, it was probably for the best."

"You think so?"

"I dunno about you, but it definitely gave me some clarity, in the end," he said. "We were so… just not moving forward at all."

"At a standstill," she agreed, recalling telling Rick the same.

"Yeah, and you just – you shook the whole fuckin' thing up. We needed that."

Michonne opened her mouth to protest what was happening, but nothing came out, too afraid to say the wrong thing. Instead she popped up from her seat as the realization of what was happening washed over her. He thought they could get back together. Oh no.  _Oh no_. Her face hurt. She wanted to throw up. "I'm too drunk for this," she mumbled. Inside the house, she could hear people yelling, and she could only imagine that the new year was upon them. "I have to go," she said, shaking her head. It was silly to think she was in the state of mind to have this conversation, whatever it was, right now.

"Are you all right?" he asked, standing with her. There was panic in her eyes, and he wasn't sure where it came from. It was like Cinderella realizing the clock was striking 12:00.

"Yeah… I just… Glenn wanted to go," she shook her head, unsure whether that lined up with their original lie. "We have to get a car."

"Did I say something wrong?" he wondered, ignoring her pitiful excuse.

When he reached out to touch her, she backed away until her back was touching the stair railing. "I'll try to come by tomorrow," she said, before turning back into the house. She didn't even know whether the was a lie; she just knew she needed to get away from him.

* * *

**Friday 11:37 PM**   
_Hey, I'm sorry about that. Please  
_ _call me back when you can._

_Rick, please call me._

**Saturday 10:07 AM**   
_You know I didn't mean what I said. I_  
_*hope* you know that, anyway. My_  
_mother is just so dogmatic, and I'd_  
_gotten through this trip without_  
_having to discuss this with her. It  
_ _was the easiest thing to say._

_But it was the worst thing to say. I_  
_shouldn't have taken the easy route.  
_ _You didn't deserve it. I'm sorry._

**Saturday 3:12 PM**   
_You know you're not nobody.  
_ _Please don't do this._

**Saturday 4:16 PM**   
_I told my dad about you. I trust him._  
_I didn't tell him all of it, but I told him_  
_that you've made me happier than_  
_anything in a long time, and he was_  
_glad for me. If I thought that would_  
_be my mom's response, I would've_  
_told her, too. But she's so hung up  
_ _on Negan._

_She's an asshole. She raised an  
_ _asshole lol._

**Saturday 6:10 PM  
** _RICK._

_I thought surely you would agree  
_ _with that, at least._

**Sunday 8:14 AM**   
_I feel ridiculous incessantly texting_  
_someone who clearly has no_  
_interest in responding, but I miss_  
_you. So much. Even the few_  
_minutes we spent on the phone_  
_every evening were profoundly better_  
_than all the time I've had to spend_  
_without you this week. I fucked up._  
_If you let me, I'll try to fix it. But I_  
_know you know that I don't think of  
_ _you as just a neighbor._

_I gave you so much of me, Rick. I_  
_couldn't give you everything, and I_  
_suppose that's what's compounded_  
_what I said. But I gave you what I_  
_could, when I didn't even have it to  
_ _give._

_You have to protect yourself. And_  
_Carl. I get that. After what you've_  
_been through, you should. So if you_  
_really think I'll hurt you, if you truly_  
_believe I'm bad for you and for him,_  
_then I'll accept that. It makes sense_  
_that you'd want to cut and run now._  
_It's just been a few months. We_  
_could move on pretty easily at this_  
_point. Before it gets too serious._  
_That's very logical and very you._  
_But Rick, if any part of you still wants_  
_this – if you can look past what I said_  
_and think about how we made each  
_ _other feel – then please talk to me._

**Monday 7:12 AM**   
_I'll be back in Gatlinburg tomorrow._  
_Please tell me I'll see you this  
_ _weekend._

Sitting in Terminal 2E of Charles De Gaulle, Rick stared at the messages he'd gotten over the last few days from Michonne. Each one more desperate – more honest – than the last. He felt so compelled to respond, but for his own good, he knew he couldn't. As their last conversation – if one could call it that – had proven, she would break his heart if he let her. And she was right – after what he'd been through with Lori, he couldn't do it again. He wouldn't.

He sat there repeatedly typing and erasing messages, unable to find a simple, sincere set of words to convey what he needed to say. Carl was sitting beside him, luckily too engaged in his TV show to even wonder what had his father so vexed. Rick wished he hadn't been stupid enough to involve him in this. He and Michonne were adults; their attachment to one another would fade sooner than later, really. Like she said, it had only been a few months. But he foolishly brought some stranger into his kid's life, knowing he was taking a risk, and wanting so badly to believe in it, in her, he did so without thinking. In the end, he was angrier with himself than Michonne.

He started again, typing a response – I ' – but then, again, erased it. He started one more time, this time, leaving out the apology. Because as far as he was concerned, he had nothing to be sorry for.

_**Monday 4:09 PM  
** _ _I can't trust you._

* * *

It was late morning as Michonne, along with Glenn, pulled up to her old home on Ponce de Leon Ave, when she finally received a reply from Rick. Four simple words that managed to shatter her, just when she thought herself well enough to tell Negan her side of her story.

_I can't trust you_.

It was painful enough on its own, and being the only thing he'd said to her all weekend; but paired with the fact that he was about the only person she did trust these days, it was downright heartbreaking. She didn't feel she could rely on her parents, certainly not Sasha. Glenn was there for her, but she didn't want to put him in an awkward situation with his housemate by having him choose her. She'd already done enough damage as it was. But Rick? She depended on him to make all this better after all was said and done. What her mother said didn't matter, how Sasha felt didn't matter, because she was going back to Tennessee, to the man she loved. She counted on that.

Now, she didn't know what she could count on? Was he done? It sounded like he was done. If he wanted to work on their relationship, if he was open to trying to trust her, she was fairly certain he would've said so. He would've said  _more_. She waited for those three iMessage dots to tell her he was still typing, but there was nothing.

"Everything okay?" Glenn wondered, looking over to her. He could tell by her expression that it wasn't, and after the last 24 hours, she probably shouldn't be, but he didn't know how else to broach the subject.

Michonne ran her hand over her face, more frustrated than she knew how to put into words. But she had to walk into this house and face Negan, so she didn't have time to fall apart over it. "Well it looks like you won't be meeting Rick," she said, forcing herself to remain composed as the words came out. "So there's that."

"What?" Glenn asked, worried. "Did he get mad about Negan or something?"

"No, nothing like that," she smiled, appreciating his concern. "But given all my baggage with him, it's probably for the best anyway."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means I didn't have any business being in a relationship in the first place," she said, shaking her head, as if to dismiss the whole thing that easily. Though inside, she was crumbling. "I really appreciate you being willing to come back with me," she added, "but I think I'm gonna just rent a car and go it alone."

"Oh. Okay," Glenn nodded, disappointed – though mostly for her. "If that's what you want."

"I'd be terrible company anyway," she said, holding back tears. She leaned in to give him a hug and a kiss. Her only friend. "I appreciate you so much."

Glenn heard the crack in her voice and could only nod again sadly. "You know we love you and we're here for you, right?" he asked. He meant for that 'we' to include Sasha, even if she wasn't acting like it right now. Because maybe Michonne left the first time because they didn't make that clear enough. "You're not on your own here."

She offered the most sincere smile she could muster and then sighed. "I'll see you soon," she told him. And with that, she piled out of the car, grabbing her bag from the trunk before heading up the walkway to her old home. It had only been a matter of months, but the house felt like a totally different place than what she remembered. In winter, it looked foreign anyway, with all the greenery having disappeared or died. There was a swing hanging from the big oak tree near the street that she'd totally forgotten about. Negan put it there in anticipation of Anthony. She wished he'd taken it down, but maybe it was too sad a thing for him, too. The same way she'd insisted on leaving his room in tact.

When Michonne approached the door, she made the decision to knock, hoping to highlight that she didn't think of this place as her home anymore. Negan answered almost immediately, looking like the single dad lead of a romantic comedy in his black sweater and his big smile. He already looked better than he had the night before.

"Hey," he grinned, glad to see her. "You know you could've used your key."

"I didn't think it was a good idea," she shrugged, continuing inside as he took a few steps back. "I haven't lived here in a while," she said, planting her bag just beside the door.

"Well, come on in," he said, pointing her toward the living room. "I was just throwing some clothes in the dryer."

"Oh, well do your thing," she offered awkwardly. This was all so strange. She had a mind to just slip out of the house while he was in the laundry room. But that was what got her in this mess in the first place, so she decided to stay put, looking around the home as if it were here first time there. It was all so pristine. So boring. Same as she left it. It had none of the color or personality that Aaron had given to Rick's place. It didn't even have the charm of her cabin. It was no wonder she was so depressed there. It felt like a house instead of a home.

She quietly wondered whether Negan had changed anything about Anthony's room. She couldn't imagine he had, but also would've understood if he did. Living with all these reminders, she knew firsthand how torturous it was. But the foyer still displayed a picture of the two of them – on vacation in Rio, the snapshot from a boat ride they'd taken to Ilha Grande. If he hadn't moved that, this daily reminder, and the first thing he saw upon walking into his house each day, then she was pretty sure he hadn't altered Anthony's room. She was so tempted to go see for herself – it felt as though a magnet was drawing her to that room. But before she could turn down the hall, she was stopped by a big, familiar voice.

"Is that my girl?"

Michonne turned to find Lucille entering from the kitchen, a smile matching her son's capturing her face. This tiny woman, only 5'2 and probably 110 pounds – it was a wonder she gave birth to Negan, tall as he was – with her voice that carried across a house. "Hey," Michonne grinned at her, genuinely happy to see her. She looked good – great, in fact. She'd dyed her short dark brown hair a burgundy color, which made her look younger. She didn't look like a woman her kids needed to worry about. Michonne approached her for a hug as she said, "It's so good to see you."

"Oh, you too," she cooed, not only hugging Michonne, but squeezing her as they rocked back and forth. "I missed you," she whispered.

Michonne practically melted at the embrace – the kind she'd needed from her own mother but hadn't received. And she certainly hadn't expected it from  _Negan's_ after what she'd done to her son. She expected a lecture, at least, but certainly, she figured she'd be withdrawn. Aloof. "I'm so sorry," she told her, holding back tears. "I was in such a bad place."

"I know, doll," Lucille said, stroking the back of her head as she gave her one extra squeeze before the women separated. "We're just happy you're home."

Michonne didn't have the heart to say, again, that she wasn't home, and instead allowed Lucille to take her hand and lead her to the living room. There, they took close seats on the sofa, where Lucille continued to hold onto her hand. "How are you?" she asked, rubbing her thumb over Michonne's knuckles. "How are your parents?"

"They're okay," Michonne nodded, feeling comforted, somehow, by Lucille's thick New York accent. "I'm okay."

"You look good," she told her, smiling as she surveyed her glowing skin. Her cheekbones, sculpted by God himself. Such a pretty girl. "You've gained some weight, I see."

Michonne smiled back. "You look  _great_ ," she told her, trying not to think of her own parents. And then about Rick – the reason she'd managed to gain weight. He'd kept her fed in so many ways. "I'm living for this hair color."

Lucille grinned again as she ran a hand through her pixie cut. "They call it Cherry Coke," she laughed quietly. "Hell, I figure, if I'm gonna be in Atlanta…"

"Yeah," Michonne nodded, looking at her sympathetically then, given the reason she was in Atlanta. "How are you feeling?"

"Good, actually," she nodded. "You know they had me walking with a cane about two months ago, so to be back on my feet like normal, it feels quite good."

"Oh, wow. I didn't know that."

Lucille waved it away. "Doctors take so many precautions," she said just as Negan walked into the room to join them. "And this one, he gets so rattled by everything."

"Come on, Ma," Negan said, taking a seat across from the two of them. "Let's not act like I was worried for no reason."

"I'm not, I'm just saying, you go so overboard," she chided him jokingly. She turned back to Michonne, "You know he wanted to have a hospital bed installed for my stay here."

Michonne looked at him, easily imagining what he must've been feeling. It made sense that he wanted to do everything he could to prevent anything happening to his mother. After Anthony, they both blamed themselves, endlessly contemplating what they could've done differently. So he deserved whatever peace of mind he could find in protecting his mom. "I wouldn't expect anything less," she said.

"So did you just get in?" Lucille asked, not wanting to dominate the conversation with her medical history. "I know you must've been in Iowa for Christmas."

"I was," Michonne nodded, again, her mind on Rick, wishing, futilely, that she'd just gone to Paris. So much of this could've been avoided if she had. She'd still be happy. "So yes, I got in to Atlanta late on the twenty-ninth."

"Oh," she replied, surprised. She thought Michonne had just flown in.

"She was staying with Sasha," Negan interjected, seeing his mother's confusion. "Her best friend."

"Oh, yes, yes, your maid of honor."

Happy to ignore any wedding talk, Michonne glanced at Negan curiously this time, wondering why he was clearly keeping parts of the story from his mother. She assumed it was in part to protect her, which was so strange after all she'd done. Her guilt was beginning to weigh her down. "Yeah, my girl missed me, so I thought I'd spend a few days with her," she said distractedly.

"And so what have you been up to while you were gone?" Lucille asked. "I hope you've been traveling."

"I um… not really," Michonne chuckled quietly. Uncomfortably. "I've been in Tennessee," she admitted. "This little town called Gatlinburg. I've been teaching and… hunting." She laughed at the thought. "I've been making a life there," she said. "I'm actually heading back today."

"Oh," Lucille said again. She looked to her son, who seemed to think Michonne was going to be staying there with them. That she was coming home. "Are you going to… stay? Or tie up some loose ends? What's going on?"

Michonne laughed again, nervously, as she had no idea how to answer that. It was a good question, and one they deserved an answer to. She didn't have any intention of coming home to Negan, but whether she was staying in Tennessee? After the text she'd received from Rick, she really didn't know.

"Ma, can you leave us alone for a minute," Negan asked. The expression on Michonne's face told him that his mother was overwhelming her.

"Sure, baby," Lucille replied. She gently patted Michonne's hand as she told her, "Please stay for dinner, at least. I'm making my braciole."

Michonne winced as tears pricked her eyes, and she nodded, solely to acknowledge the request. Dinner meant staying overnight, which she was not willing to do. "Maybe," she said in a whisper.

Negan watched his mother shuffle out of the room before looking to his… fiancée? She looked so sad, so broken. "Sasha told me you weren't expecting to see me last night."

"I thought you were in New York," she confirmed with a small nod. "She blindsided me."

"Me, too," he admitted. "Although I think only one of us was okay with that."

"I was going to talk to you," Michonne said. "I know what I did was reprehensible and I needed to answer for it. But I wasn't ready last night. I'm not even sure that I'm ready now."

He smiled back at her glumly. "You're not ever coming home, are you?"

"This isn't my home anymore," she returned quietly, her voice quaking as her emotions tried to speak for her. The truth was, she wasn't sure she had a home. What was Tennessee without Rick?

"I've got a bedroom full of your stuff that says otherwise," he replied. "Your name is still on the fuckin' mortgage."

"I know," Michonne nodded. "These are the things I thought we'd talk about after all the apologies were said and regrets were expressed. I thought we'd talk about how to move on."

"You don't have to do this," Negan shook his head. "I'm not mad anymore, I swear. I just want you to come back."

"After what I did to you?"

"You needed space that you couldn't get in this house. If it means you feel better, then as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters. It's like you went to rehab."

Michonne nodded again. That was a nice way of looking at things. But if he knew what she'd been doing in 'rehab', she was pretty sure he wouldn't be quite so self-possessed. "Negan," she sighed, bracing herself for his response. "I met someone."

His gaze flickered, and he desperately hoped that didn't mean what he thought it meant. "You met someone?"

"A guy, who lived near me-"

" _Lived_ ," Negan cut her off, unwilling and unable to hear any more than that. "You used past tense."

"I mean-"

"I don't need to know," he said, interrupting her again. If this was all he heard, he could imagine she'd just made a friend. "We all have our methods of coping, right? For some people, it's alcohol. For some people, it's… shopping? Shit, I dunno. But it doesn't matter as long as you feel better."

"I do," she nodded. "I did."

"You don't anymore?"

"I don't know anything anymore," she said honestly. "I don't think about Anthony all the time now. But being back here… it's brought up a lot of shit. There's a reason people don't like to face their demons," she shrugged. She gazed out of the window behind him because it was hard to look at him. "I mean, my best friend chose your side, it seems, and that's a lot to take in."

"There aren't sides, Michonne," Negan said. "We all just want what's best for you. But I'm not gonna lie, I miss you like hell, and I do hope you'll see that here is what's best for you."

"I wish that were true," she replied. There was some small comfort in knowing she was wanted somewhere. Even after everything, he still trusted her to be with him? "It would make things a lot easier if it were. But in Tennessee, I came back to life. I did. And here, I just feel dead again."

"Wow," he replied, wiping his eyes as tears sprang to them. He knew it was bad, but he supposed things didn't seem  _that_  desperate, which was probably why he was so surprised when she left.

"That sounds terrible," she shook her head.

"No, it doesn't. You know I can relate to that," he said. "I get it. It just… the shit makes me sad. I don't want you to ever feel like I did."

She nodded knowingly. "I wish I could say I had it all figured out," she said. "Yesterday, I knew that I wanted to stay in Tennessee. Today, I don't know."

"Am I what changed your mind?" he asked hopefully.

She didn't want to hurt his feelings and say no. She'd already stabbed him multiple times; there was no need to twist the knife. He obviously wasn't in a space where he could hear about Rick, and she wasn't in one where she could talk about him. "I guess so," she said.

"Progress," he shrugged.

Michonne smiled sympathetically. She felt she was regressing with every day that passed and she'd only been gone for a little over a week. "I have a lot to think about," she said, attempting to put a cap on the conversation. "But I'm going to be honest with you," she said carefully, "I don't think… I mean, I can't see us getting back together."

Negan bit his bottom lip as he tried to stop himself from imagining her with someone else. That this 'someone else' was the reason she was saying this. "While you're thinking about things," he started quietly, "I hope you'll think about all the good years we had. We had fun. We had  _love_ ," he said. "It's been a rough fuckin' year," he shook his head, just thinking about it all. "But we were happy once, we can be happy again. We just gotta be willing to work for it. Therapy, fights, brutal honesty, whatever," he said. "But my life isn't worth a damn without you, Michonne-"

"That's not true," she cut in to say – she was already buckling; she couldn't handle the weight of that. He'd said it before, and she took that on, knowing he needed her, but she couldn't now. She couldn't handle being emotionally manipulated – not that she believed he was doing it purposely – when she already couldn't keep her emotions in check. "Please don't say that."

"I just... I hope you'll think hard about this – about us – before you make any kind of decision," he said, staring at her. The smile was gone, only a pleading and earnest gaze left behind. "We have history, Michonne, and I just don't want you to forget that. It didn't go away because of wherever you've been for the last few months."

Michonne nodded. The least she could do was that. "Okay."

* * *

"Hey, Dad?"

Rick turned off the running water and turned to his son, leaning against the counter before answering him. "Yeah, bud?"

Carl also set down his stylus, as he'd been sketching out one of his comics on the iPad. "Where the heck is Michonne?" he said. The tone of his question said he'd been wondering for some time now, and just found the gumption to actually ask. But they'd been home for five days now, and without even a mention of her, he was getting concerned. "Is she sick or something?"

"No, she's not sick," Rick sighed, nodding as his gaze flitted to the floor. He'd been expecting this question, and he was still so busy kicking himself for bringing her into Carl's life, he'd yet to come up with a good answer. "I think she's still in Atlanta," he said.

"Why is she there?" he asked. "Is she staying there?"

"I don't know, son-"

"Why would she just leave and not come back?" Carl demanded, inadvertently interrupting his father. His little face was scrunched with confusion and disappointment. "We were supposed to start our MCU marathon on Sunday, you know."

"I do know," Rick nodded again. He felt Carl's dismay tenfold. He exhaled shakily, feeling like he owed his son the truth. "I don't know if I can explain it in a way that'll make sense to you," Rick said. "But Michonne has a lot she needs to work through. Stuff from her past… things I can't -  _we_  can't fix for her. So it means she's not ready to be with us."

Carl looked worried by this news. He was sitting next to the giant kitchen window that overlooked Franklin, and he gazed out of it contemplatively. He supposed he had no one to be mad at about that. "Well will she come back when is is ready?" he asked, looking back at his father.

The older Grimes inhaled this time, sharply, as he considered that possibility. It would mean Rick having to let her back in, and he just didn't know if he'd be able to take that chance again. Lucky for him, there was a buzz at the door, allowing him to avoid answering – for now, anyway. If he knew Carl, this was not the last conversation they'd end up having on the topic. "That's probably your mother," he commented, turning to go let her in. "Go get your stuff."

"Okay," Carl replied gloomily as he hopped down from his chair.

Rick headed into the hall to his security system, indeed finding Lori on the surveillance screen, waiting impatiently in the lobby. He didn't say anything, knowing she was likely annoyed, if not outright pissed that he'd changed the code on her, which was the equivalent to changing the locks. He simply buzzed her in, watched as she made her way to his designated elevator, and waited for him to her allow her up. He took a deep breath, readying himself for an argument as he buzzed her upstairs.

A matter of seconds later, he could hear her boots pounding against his floors as she stalked into the apartment. "Rick," she called out, wanting to find him as quickly as possible.

"I'm here," he returned, meeting her in his living room. He immediately noticed her protruding belly, which seemed to have doubled in size since the last time he saw her, only ten days prior. It felt like another punch in the gut. "Hey," he greeted her, eyeing her dubiously.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked. She shoved an opened envelope to his chest, containing the information for some realtor that'd stopped by her house. "Why can't I get into your apartment all of a sudden?"

"Because it's my apartment," he said coolly as he examined the contents of the envelope. "You can't just walk in here whenever you want, Lori."

"Is this about your girlfriend?" she guessed. "Because I swear to god, I didn't mean to scare her. Maybe if you'd told me about her, it wouldn't have happened that way,"

"It has nothing to do with her," Rick replied, rolling his eyes. "It's about me, deserving privacy. I can't move on with my life if I keep letting you waltz into it whenever you feel like it."

Lori peered at him, deciding that it definitely was Michonne's doing. He had no problem with her having access to his home until she came along. "Is this about you 'moving on with your life', too," she asked, pointing to the realtor information in his hands. Some woman she'd never heard of, named Madison Clark. "Why was that taped to my door when I got home today?"

He regretted that she had to find out this way – he'd planned to talk to her and Shane beforehand so they'd be aware, but it seemed the realtor had jumped the gun. "I'm selling the house," he revealed quietly. "You and Shane are more than welcome to buy it from me, but I think I've done my share at this point."

"Wow," Lori laughed. It was a sarcastic laugh, meant to express her disbelief. "I know I encouraged you to move on, but I gotta say, I wouldn't have done it if I'd known this would be the result."

"You wouldn't have encouraged me to move on if you'd known I'd actually do it?" he asked.

"No. If I'd known you'd start acting like an asshole," she retorted. "But I hope you two are very happy together."

"This has nothing to do with Michonne," Rick repeated. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of telling her they were no longer together, but that might've been the only way to get her to believe him. Apparently, it was impossible for Lori to fathom that her own actions had their own consequences. "I gave you more than a year. I shouldn't have to be tethered to this thing… this relic of our relationship because you and your boyfriend like living rent-free."

"You're 'tethered' to it because of Carl," she hissed at him.

"I agreed to this because uprooting him from everything familiar to him felt cruel," Rick corrected her calmly. "But he's had a year here. I think he's okay."

"Unbelievable," she muttered, turning to walk away from him. "You want me to move when I'm having a  _baby_."

"A new baby seems like a good time for a new beginning," he said sincerely. If they'd had the money when she was pregnant with Carl, they would've been in Brentwood a long time ago. "Get the house in order and all that."

"This is so shitty of you," she chuckled angrily.

"You should hold onto this," he said, offering her the realtor's information. "She can help you find a place if you don't wanna buy this one."

Lori sighed, but took the envelope back.

"I think three months should be sufficient?" he said. He had to internally scold himself for finding mild amusement in her frustration. "But you're welcome to talk to Shane and get back to me."

"Stop acting like you care what he thinks," she retorted. "If you wanna be a dick, just own it."

"I'm not trying to be a dick," Rick shook his head. "But my kindness had been taken for weakness. And I'm tired."

Lori frowned, his words hitting her harder than she expected. Because he sounded tired. The strain in his voice said so. The darkness of his eyes. She thought it was jetlag, but looking now, no, she could see it was something else. Pain. They'd been apart for so long, and she had so much of her own shit, she rarely stopped to think about him. One of the many fatal flaws of their relationship. "Fair enough," she spoke quietly, nodding. "I'll call the realtor."

Rick nodded back appreciatively. "I'll go get Carl."

* * *

As her phone vibrated against her pillow, Michonne opened her eyes to sunlight beaming through the windows after a long, sleepless night. She peered at her phone to see the time and date: 9:41am, January 8. She'd been in Gatlinburg for a week now, and not a word from Rick. Not that she actually expected it, but a small part of her hoped that she'd see him that weekend. Even if he just came to his cabin and ignored her, she could've taken that. Something to hang her hat on. Anything would've been better than the radio silence.

The message that stirred her was from Spencer, wondering if he'd see her at the start of the semester the following week. She was only forty minutes away, but she couldn't see herself being in the mood to do that. She typed out a quick message –  _Not sure yet. I'll let you know._  – and then threw her phone back to the bed.

Rick's bed, actually. It felt so empty without him. His cabin did. She did okay when he left every week and she knew he'd be back. But this was different. She felt so abandoned by someone who once made her feel so loved, so secure.

It was why she woke up each morning and trudged down the hill to his house, over the bridge, following the grass path along the frozen pond until she reached his driveway. It was the same route she'd taken every time she visited, going back to the first time she accidentally intruded on his property. She was trespassing again, she supposed, but it was the only way she could be close to him.

The first day, she busied herself with household tasks – washing dishes that were already clean and changing out the linens. He was low on firewood, so she went out to chop some. Something to keep her warm. She went home that day and returned the next. That was when she made apple cider and read the comic books she'd been assigned by Carl. And then she stopped reading them, because it made her think about the likelihood that she'd never see Carl again. And that was like losing another child. She wanted to reread  _Half of a Yellow Sun_ , but now Chimamanda only made her think of Rick. So she'd opted for a nap. The day after that, she brought along her laptop. She figured it was a good idea to refamiliarize herself with her research on compartmental modeling. But for the most part, she just ended up staring out of the windows. The place looked so different with all the leaves in the trees gone. The snow in the mountains was quite beautiful, but the brown grass and bare trees – everything just looked… dead. Which was fitting.

When Friday came, Michonne stayed at her own home. She sat in silence, listening for Rick's truck – a sound she knew wouldn't come, but she had nothing left but her hopes. Saturday was the same. She made herself some oatmeal, as it was essentially all she had, and washed it down with some cheap wine. It was a long weekend.

By Sunday, she knew for certain he wasn't coming. Carl would be back in his care by early evening. That was when she resolved that Rick was done with her. It was over.

Still, she went back to his cabin with no real purpose now. Perhaps to mourn the loss of their relationship. The same way she'd sit in Anthony's room, rocking back and forth as she thought of all the things she wouldn't get to experience with him; she sat on Rick's porch, rocking back and forth as she thought of all the things she wouldn't get to experience with  _him_. She didn't cry, because a large part of her knew that she deserved this one, but goddamn, she was sad.

The days continued to pass and she did the same thing with each one. She sat and she sulked. She replied only to certain texts – from Glenn, from her parents – and only in one-word answers. Just so that they knew she was alive. But was she? She was turning back to the woman she used to be. Not even slowly, but in a sharp, steady descent back into madness. Spending her days staring at Rick's TV – it turned out they did get cable up there. She spent her nights in his bed like some deranged stalker, because it was the only way she could sleep. The smell of his cabin reminded her of when they first met. Pine and sandalwood, honeysuckle and dirt. It was a less pronounced aroma in the winter, but it was there. Haunting her, but also enveloping her as nothing else did.

When the following weekend came, Michonne went down to Rick's garage, where all his unfinished projects lived. There were end tables and desks that needed sanding, a strange little ottoman and a half-finished dresser. There was a bench he'd finished – a loveseat, really – but didn't like the end result, so he decided to leave it there. She'd carved her initials in it, because that was about all the use she was to him in his carpentry endeavors. Somehow, she'd never noticed until then that their last name started with the same letter. She imagined someone finding that bench someday, seeing 'MG' and thinking, Oh, he carved his wife's initials in his work.

That was when she knew she was losing it.

By the time Michonne hit the two-week mark, she'd run out of food. Not that she had much in the first place, since she knew she'd be out of town. It snowed the day she planned to go out, but unlike most southerners, snow didn't scare her. She'd rented a little Chevy Cruze to get her back to Tennessee, and it was still sitting outside, just behind her Lexus. She kept extending the rental agreement because that was easier than getting dressed to leave the house. One day she'd return it to the nearest airport, but not today.

Today, she would go grocery shopping. She figured that was an improvement on the previous version of this Michonne. Before, she allowed Negan to do all the work. Because he was willing and she wasn't able. But now, she was alone, and subsisting on cereal and alcohol was only going to get her so far. So she dressed in layers of clothing that didn't really match – a hoodie, over a sweater, all under her coat, with sweatpants and a pair of heavy boots she could trudge through the snow in. Only about four inches had fallen so far, but it wasn't showing any signs of stopping.

When Michonne arrived to Food City, the parking lot was practically empty. To the point where she wasn't entirely sure it was open. But she noticed Carol's car, an old Subaru Outback, in the corner of the lot, so she headed inside. She was surprised to find the shelves looked relatively normal, full of the usual selections of bread and water. In Atlanta, if there was even a mention of snow, all the staples were gone within a couple of hours. Of course, her little area of Gatlinburg wasn't very populated outside of visitors, and she supposed the holiday rush was over. It was quiet again.

She hated how quiet it was.

She shopped in solitude for milk and eggs. More oatmeal. There was a sale on canned peaches, so she bought those, too. She also found some ground turkey and canned tomatoes, figuring she could make chili or spaghetti once and it would last a couple of weeks. Lucille would kill her if she knew she was using canned tomatoes for anything, much less, spaghetti, but it would have to do. She sighed to herself as she thought about Lucille. The warm welcome she gave her after abandoning her son that way. After Michonne abandoned  _her_. She'd become so close to his mother and sister over the years, and she never even considered how they'd feel when she left.

There was something beautiful about the way lives intertwined when two people fell in love. Two families suddenly become one. She'd looked forward to doing that with Rick. Spending time with Carl and Aaron and Ezekiel. She smiled sadly, thinking of how adamant Carl had been about meeting her parents, her meeting Rick's. She would've given anything to rewind back to those moments and enthusiastically agree. A tear slipped out as she distractedly approached the checkout and she wiped it away before Carol could notice; she was loath to answer her twenty questions this afternoon.

"You're back," Carol commented coolly, eyeing her customer for the first time in approximately a month. "I figured you'd gone back to Atlanta by now."

Michonne couldn't bring herself to be annoyed, even though she'd never actually told Carol where she was from. "Happy New Year," she managed to croak out. "It's good to see you."

"Where's Rick?" she wondered as she quickly ran the items over the scanner. "I haven't seen him in even longer."

Michonne nodded and tried to put on a brave face, but she could feel herself cracking before the words could even form. Her eyes brimmed with tears and they immediately spilled to her cheeks as she swallowed hard. "I think he's back in Nashville," she practically whispered. She went to bag her own groceries, if only to avoid Carol's sympathetic gaze, wiping her face with the cuff of her jacket before her cheeks could soak.

"I think the kids start back tomorrow at UT. Is that right?" Carol asked, attempting to change the subject to something less heavy.

"Yeah," she said, feigning chipperness. "I'm taking the semester off, but I'll probably go by there in a few days to see some of my colleagues."

Carol nodded. It was rare that she didn't find a way to make small talk with her customers – she saw pretty much the same people every week, especially at this slow time of year – but she still hadn't quite figured out this Michonne Godard. When she first arrived, she was obviously in some deep-seated pain that Carol wish she could've coached her through. She tried to make it known that she was there for her. But something happened over the last few months – Rick, whose last name she didn't know, because he always paid in cash – if she had to guess. There was light in her. And suddenly, it was gone again. As if someone had just flipped a switch. It was hard to see. "Michonne, are-"

"Thanks, Carol," Michonne cut her off before she could ask the question she knew was coming. She paid as quickly as she could and dashed off with her three bags. She didn't mean to be rude, truly, but she was on the verge of bursting in the middle of Food City, and she couldn't have that.

_There are days that I can walk around like I'm alright_  
_And I pretend to wear a smile on my face_  
_And I could keep the pain from comin' out of my eyes  
_ _But sometimes, sometimes…_

Michonne had just barely made it to her car when Carol called after her. With a sigh, she turned to see the cashier-slash-doula running into the parking lot, sans coat, and she wondered if she'd forgotten something. She had a habit of doing that. But Carol had nothing in her hands.

"Can we talk?" Carol asked, breathless when she reached her.

Michonne stared at her, frowning at the very thought. What could they possibly have to talk about? But her eyes seemed to be pleading with her, and the snow flurries were turning thicker by the second as they dropped onto the two of them, and she couldn't just let Carol stand there. "Okay..." she said, gesturing for her to take the passenger seat. Michonne threw her bags in the back before filing into the driver's side. She turned on the car for the purposes of heat and then glanced at Carol expectantly. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't speak, waiting for Carol to make her move instead.

Carol turned her entire body toward Michonne and regarded her with a genial but concerned stare. She also didn't really know what to say. For all intents and purposes, she didn't know this woman. But it felt like something was wrong, and maybe she just needed someone to ask the question. "What happened?"

Michonne's instinct was to chuckle at the loaded question. Where would she even start? But her laugh came out as a tiny yelp, and she looked at Carol, but before she knew it, her vision was blurred with tears again.

_Sometimes I cry_

"You don't have to say, but I thought it might help if you got to speak about it."

"I lost my son," she said in one breath. The second the words came out, she was gasping for air as if the very expression had taken it away. "I lost him," she repeated through gulps, through sobs. "And I came here because I couldn't be there." She stopped speaking because her words were turning to gibberish beneath her tears. So she let herself cry.

She hugged the steering wheel like it was a person, like it was her barely born son, and allowed her weeps to fill the car. Snow covered the windshield, and within minutes, it was dark and cold to match her soul. And she cried for Anthony. She cried for Negan. She cried for what she'd done. She cried for what she didn't do. She cried for finding Rick when she had no right to be happy. She cried for losing him just when she realized she deserved that happiness. She cried for disappointing her mother and alienating Sasha. She cried for knowing some of these things weren't her fault, but needing to take the blame anyway. She cried for every moment she wanted to die over the past year, and for all the times she felt alive.

_Cry_

Carol rubbed her back as she watched this woman wring herself out. She was sobbing so hard, she wasn't sure she wasn't going to pass out, but she held her as best she could, because it was clear this was something she needed. She'd been in the room when mothers lost their children, and it was a special kind of pain. It didn't even have a word. Widows and orphans, but nothing for parents who lose their little ones. Perhaps it's too tragic a thing to give a word to, because that wasn't the natural order of things. But if that were true, she wouldn't have held so many women, just like this, after such a devastating loss. She wiped a couple of her own tears as she tried to assuage Michonne's.

_Sometimes I cry  
_ _When I can't do nothing else_

As her wails turned to sniffles, Michonne felt empty. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but as if she'd gotten rid of this thing she'd been carrying on her back for so long. Pent up emotions that had been neglected for months, maybe even years. Definitely years. Her face and neck were drenched and she was somehow colder than she was before, but she felt… better? "I keep fucking up," she said quietly to Carol. "When I left Atlanta to come here, I left a fiancé behind," she admitted. She waited for Carol to respond, but she said nothing. No judgment, no questions. Nothing. "So I came here to get away from everything that made me feel anything," she went on. "And then I met Rick, and he made me feel everything."

"He seems good," Carol acknowledged.

That was such the perfect word to describe him. From top to bottom, inside and out, he was purely, wholly good. "I loved him," Michonne said, but quickly corrected herself. "I love him. But I don't have any business loving anyone right now."

"Says who?" she wondered.

"Says the fact that I drove him away. Over something so minor and silly," she sniffled. "And... he doesn't trust me anymore."

"I'm sure that's not true," Carol said. "Couples fight."

"He said it," Michonne shook her head, a fresh set of tears beginning to fall. "He meant it. And he should've. It just… knowing how easily it could've been avoided, it hurts like hell."

_Everybody keeps tellin' me to move on_  
_Oh but I can't seem to go anywhere without you_  
_'Cause ever since, and every single night you been gone  
_ _Sometimes, sometimes..._

"You should go to him," she suggested. "Like in the movies. Go to Nashville and say the big 'I'm sorry' speech. It's subversive, because you're a woman apologizing to a man."

Michonne chuckled, genuinely amused – and appreciative of the laugh. But barring the fact that she'd already done that, she knew it would be an invasion this time. "I've thought about that, but… if he wanted to see me, he would've said so. He would've been here. He doesn't play a bunch of games," she said, wiping more errant tears. "If he still wanted this, I'd know it." It was that simple. He was done, and in impeccable irony, leaving her the same way she had Negan. It would be poetic if it hadn't left this excruciating ache. An ache that made her drop her head to the steering wheel once more, and she allowed more tears to fall.

_Sometimes I cry_

* * *

After her breakdown in front of a veritable stranger, Michonne knew she needed help. More than the temporary bandage that Tennessee provided. More than the balm of Rick and his good life, more than the welcoming arms of Negan or just the support of family and friends. She needed to heal. And she wasn't going to do that in Gatlinburg, all those memories of Rick plaguing her. And the truth was, she didn't want to be alone. Maybe she never did. But certainly not anymore. Because it wasn't just Anthony now. It was everything. She'd ruined relationships, some had ruined her, but it was too much to sit with on her own.

So she went back to Atlanta. To stay? She didn't know. Maybe. She could return to her job, find a new home, perhaps a condo in midtown. A far cry from her secluded cabin in the mountains, but maybe that was what she needed.

_Cry_

Feeling hollow, she returned to the scene of her original sin, knowing it wasn't the best idea, but it was also better than any of her other options. Because for those few minutes with Lucille, she felt like things weren't as bad as she thought. She could hold onto that while she tried to find herself.

She rang the doorbell again, because she still didn't think of this place as home, and waited for Negan to answer. He did, after a few minutes. It was dark, though not late, but he was probably in bed. He went to bed early sometimes, usually when taking Ambien after a rough day. She imagined he'd had a lot of those lately. He'd answered the door in his pajamas and that smile, and it was as though she hadn't been gone for two weeks. And five months.

"This is a mistake," she said, the realization striking her as she noted how happy he was to see her. And how unhappy she was to be seen. She turned to leave, not wanting to pull him any further into her mess than she already had. But he stopped her.

"Hey," Negan said, reaching out to grab her arm before she could run away again.

"No, it's  _really_  not a good idea," she said, wiping frustratedly at tears that had streamed down her cheeks. She was so damn tired of crying.

_Sometimes I cry_

"Come here," he said, pulling her into a hug, despite her protests. "You came here for a reason."

"I came here because I didn't know where else to go," she mumbled under her tears. "But this isn't good for you. I'm not staying."

"I think I can decide what's good for me," he said, a smile still evident in his voice. She was always trying to take care of him, but she barely gave him the chance to return the favor. "Even if you just need somewhere to rest your head, it can be here, Michonne."

"I need therapy," she whispered, knowing she could no longer avoid it. Self-medicating wasn't working. And maybe it'd only made things worse.

"Then we'll find you a therapist," he nodded over the top of her head, rubbing her back. "It's gonna be work, but we can do it."

She had to fight her impulse to turn down his help. Because even if she didn't want it from him, it was time to admit that she needed it. "Okay," she said. She was so cold and so numb, she wasn't sure he wasn't holding her up. Tears flooding her cheeks, she nodded against him. "Okay."

_Sometimes I cry  
_ _When I can't do nothing else_

* * *

Lyrics: "Sometimes I Cry" - Chris Stapleton ( _Traveller_ )


	15. The Climb

"What's on your mind today, Michonne?"

Michonne bit her lip as she stared at her doctor, Dr. Garvey, for far too long as she tried to come up with with a suitable response. Because whenever she was asked that, the answer was essentially the same – Rick. He'd been on her mind for two months now, which was the last time she'd heard from him. And each day was a little easier, the pain subsiding a little bit more, at least, but he wasn't gone from her head or heart; not even close.

It had taken work to find a therapist she liked. Therapy, in general, scared the shit out of her. She'd tried it before – not because of Anthony, but with Negan, years ago. She hated the way it made her feel cut open. And that was back when she was relatively healthy. Now, as she was forced to explore her own psyche, it felt like having open heart surgery without the anesthetic.

Still, she showed up every Monday at 2 p.m., ready to do the hard work. After tries with three other doctors Negan helped her find, she'd finally settled on this one, Dr. Bertie Kootin-Garvey. Michonne had been very clear that she wanted a black female counselor, which she knew would be easier to find in Atlanta than probably anywhere. She could only imagine the options in other parts of the country – where black folks likely needed a doctor who looked like them the most. She ended up finding hers in the Cascade Heights area of the city. It was the mecca of the black affluence in Atlanta, and so, black professionals were on every corner. It just became a matter of finding the right one.

She'd chosen Dr. Garvey because she specialized in trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy, but she also just liked the way she looked. She had a kind face and she was well put together. She wore her natural hair short and dark blonde, and wore red lipstick in her profile picture. In her videos, she spoke crisply, succinctly, but she was warm. She seemed like someone Michonne could be friends with. Her office was painted a soothing sage green with walls full of books, which always put Michonne at ease. Her furniture was contemporary, but comfortable – big, cushy gray chairs sitting on a fluffy off-white rug. The space was big, but it felt almost cozy, Michonne had noticed as she sat there for an hour each week. She'd only been with Dr. Garvey for a month now, so they'd just scratched the surface of her many issues, but Michonne liked her. She wanted to stay with her.

"I haven't really talked about Negan yet," Michonne finally said, taking a deep breath. Her first two sessions, where most of the focus was on Anthony, had been rather intense – to the point where Dr. Garvey even teared up, which she said was rare for her. Their last meeting was easier, as it was spent mostly on Sasha. Michonne got to be angry instead of sad. But she'd been doling out information about Negan and Rick little by little, because the situation just sounded… well, crazy. But it was silly for her to not want her doctor to know how sick she was.

"Okay," Dr. Garvey nodded, sitting back in her chair. She crossed her legs and set her notepad in her lap. "Let's talk about Negan."

"Okay," Michonne inhaled again, feeling her entire body tense. "Should... I start with how we met?"

"Start wherever you feel comfortable," the doctor encouraged, as usual. "We'll get where we need to go."

She didn't really feel comfortable anywhere, so she could've used some direction. But she went with the most natural place to begin – the beginning. "Well we met about six years ago," Michonne said. She sat primly in her chair – her legs crossed at the ankle, her hands clasped in her lap. "I'd just started at CDC, and I wasn't familiar with the area, so I was going to the same place for lunch every day. It was within walking distance, and I was loath to leave campus in my car because parking was dire. It still is," she added as an aside with a small smile. "Anyway, it was this cute little mom-and-pop Italian restaurant, and I'd go sit in there and just read most days. And Negan would come in, looking almost like an old school, I'm talking Golden Age, movie star. He wore these suits that were tailored to him so perfectly. He'd order the same thing every day, and have these long conversations with the owners..."

"So you noticed him first," Dr. Garvey commented.

"I noticed him, certainly. But I was in a relationship, so it wasn't like I was looking," Michonne explained. "He was just… someone I saw."

"Got it."

"And more to the point, he noticed me," she went on. "He would come over to my table, even on days where I was wearing headphones that were supposed to say, 'Don't bother me.' He didn't care."

"Did you really not want him to bother you? Or did you want to see if he'd put forth the effort?"

Michonne smiled, because that was essentially what she was going to say next. "I wanted him to bother me," she chuckled quietly. "I liked flirting with him. He introduced me to the owners of the restaurant, who were old friends of his parents, and they often made the most delicious off-menu meals for me. Which isn't important, but it was just this little thing that made me feel special."

"Can't be mad at that," Dr. Garvey grinned.

"I liked it a lot. The attention he gave me." Her eyes began to survey the room as she spoke, as she struggled not to wonder what keywords her doctor was writing down. "It was just for that hour or so a day. And not even every day," she said. "But every morning, I'd wake up thinking about what I'd wear to work that day to impress him. He always complimented me." She smiled thinking of a particular dress that he really liked – a simple, fitted maroon dress that stopped mid-calf. She liked to wear it with a pair of caramel-colored ankle boots. It'd been such a long time since she put effort into her clothes.

"And what about the person you were with at the time?" the doctor asked. "What was that relationship like?"

Michonne shook her head, barely even able to remember that relationship now. "It was dying," she said. "Siddiq was very smart, very goal-oriented, but… he didn't like me. He hated being around my friends. It was bad."

"He didn't like Sasha?" she asked to confirm.

Michonne nodded. "I think he liked the idea of us. But we both probably knew on some level, it was more of a placeholder relationship until something better came along."

"And for you, Negan was that better thing?"

"Well I remember enjoying that he wanted me," she went on. "I don't know about better, but he was persistent, even when I said I had a boyfriend, and that was just… flattering on some level. When you're in a relationship with someone who's barely interested in you, someone  _captivated_  by you certainly  _seems_  better." Michonne waited for her therapist to comment on this epiphany of hers, but she said nothing, so she continued. "Anyway, it didn't matter, because Negan ended up disappearing."

"He disappeared?" she asked, obviously surprised that this seemed to be a theme in her patient's life.

"For… easily two or three months," Michonne nodded. "He stopped coming to the restaurant. But for the first few weeks, it was over the holidays, so I figured he was just busy, or had gone on vacation. You know, most people take off at the end of the year. But then it continued into late January, and I got worried. Because why would he suddenly stop showing up? Had he moved? Our last conversation, he joked about taking me to dinner one day soon, so it didn't make sense that he was so abruptly gone."

"Did you worry it had something to do with you?"

"I wondered," Michonne admitted. "Thought maybe he got bored with me. But that also made little sense since our relationship… friendship. Whatever. It was so casual. I don't even think we'd seen each other outside of lunchtime. After the holidays, I broke up with the other guy. It was nice to be able to go home and say I wasn't single, just for my mother's sake, but it was so clearly over – as evidenced by the fact that I was interested in someone else. Me and Siddiq were dying already, and Negan was essentially the thing that put it out of its misery."

Dr. Garvey wrote a few words on her notepad before telling her, "Go on."

"Eventually, I found out from the restaurant owners, the reason Negan disappeared was because his father died."

"Mm," she replied in acknowledgment as she did a quick scan of her notes. "How old is Negan?"

"He's thirty-eight," Michonne answered, inwardly questioning the significance. To establish how young he was when he lost his dad? "So… I went ahead and found him on Facebook, just wanting to offer my condolences, and it was probably another month or so before I heard back from him." Michonne very suddenly began to tear up as she thought back to this time of her life. "I think it was March before we finally saw each other again? This is four months without any interaction, and he just looked so different from the man I met. This vibrant, charming, attractive guy had turned into a mess, really. He had this scraggly beard… I'd never even seen him in jeans, and he was in sweatpants. He'd asked me to meet him, but it was obvious he didn't want to leave the house. And I still don't exactly know why... I like to think he saw compassion in me... but he just sort of let me into his life this random Saturday afternoon." She preemptively grabbed a tissue from the table beside her as she added, "And I know this session isn't about Negan's trauma, but it does connect to me."

"No, you're absolutely right," Dr. Garvey said encouragingly. "Keep going. Whatever comes out."

"It turned out he had a very complicated relationship with his father," Michonne continued. "This was a man who used to beat the hell out of him, because it was 'frowned upon' to hit his wife or his daughter. So he took out his frustrations on his son. And still, Negan… I dunno. He didn't hate him, as much as he wanted to. I think it actively  _bothered_  him how much he loved his father anyway," she said sniffling. "He told me that he was scared to leave home, because what would his dad do once he was gone? His mom had to essentially force him out of the house. She had to make him go live his life. And I think all of that really fucked with him.

"So for me to hear it from him," Michonne went on, "for him to tell the stories of how his father would punch him in places that wouldn't leave visible marks. How, a couple of times, once he got older, there were just full-on fist fights. I felt so sorry for him. He was so broken, so conflicted and confused. And just… I wanted to help. So I did." She wiped at tears that finally fell as she relived the beginning of her relationship with Negan.

"I think… some part of me perhaps just wanted the challenge," she proceeded. "I wanted to be able to put him back together again. So I became his friend, his confidant, his caretaker," she smirked and then sighed. "I took him to therapy. Every week, like clockwork, I made sure he was in that office. I rationed his meds until he could handle it on his own; and even then, I monitored him. I washed his ass, literally, sometimes, when he felt like couldn't move. When he'd lie in bed for days on end. He was low, and I was fine, so I could fix it." She sniffled again. "I don't know if it was love," she admitted, "not at first. But there was certainly a connection I felt to him, being there for someone that way. There was intimacy there that you can't fake." She nodded as if trying to convince herself.

"And how long did this version of your relationship go on?"

"Probably… a year, year and a half?" Michonne said. "I mean, there was progress every day. Some days, there were setbacks. He had trouble sleeping a lot of nights, but his days... yeah. I could see him slowly come back to life. And I found a good man waiting for me. He was kind. He showed appreciation for what I'd done for him. And we sort of… fell into happiness."

"What do you call 'happiness'?" Dr. Garvey asked as she jotted down a few more notes.

"It was, you know, a healthy partnership. We  _liked_  each other. We introduced our friends and families to one another, and everyone got along, for the most part. We grew separately and together. We moved in together. We traveled. We made 'couple' friends. He kept going to therapy, I got a promotion at my job. Not long after that, we bought a house together. Things were normal."

"And you equate 'normal' with happy?"

"In this instance, yes," Michonne nodded. "About a year after we got the house, we ended up getting pregnant. And then engaged. I felt like my life was on the track it was supposed to be, and I think  _that_  felt good to me more than anything.

The therapist nodded, internalizing the meaning in Michonne's words. "What 'track' is that?" she wondered.

"The 'normal' one," she said again. "Husband, baby, career. All the things well-rounded women are supposed to want. Because if you just want family, you're simple. And if you just want to focus on your career, you're too severe. So I tried to have it all."

"Did you actually want any of it?"

"It's hard to say," Michonne answered honestly. "In hindsight, it's easy to say no. Because I could've avoided all of this. I'd probably be fine right now if I hadn't wanted it. If I could even pretend I didn't. But when I was in it, I felt happy," she said thoughtfully, catching Dr. Garvey's eye. "But maybe that was just because I was doing what I thought I was  _supposed_  to be doing."

"Was the loss of your son the first time you felt unhappy in this relationship?" Dr. Garvey asked gently.

Michonne paused before replying, wanting to be honest in her response; again, not wanting to give the easy answer. "I wasn't  _happy_  taking care of him. I did it because it felt like the right thing to do. You don't let someone drown if you can save them."

Dr. Garvey nodded.

"With the loss of our baby," she said, "I became the person he was at the start. The tables were turned, and I felt… shame." Another tear slipped down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away with her hand as if she could pretend it didn't happen. "I felt useless," she said. "Because I was the one who took care of him, and needing him to take care of me was such a foreign and unwelcome feeling. I think, maybe, some part of me liked having that power over him?" Michonne shook her head, knowing how terrible that sounded. But it was the truth. "So when I lost it, I didn't want to be in the relationship anymore. I couldn't love him anymore. I couldn't look at him." She closed her eyes as her face flooded with her tears in nearly an instant. "He had my son's face and the knowledge that I was utterly broken, and I couldn't be in that house anymore." She snatched another tissue from the end table as she waited for her doctor to confirm what a shitty person she was.

"Michonne, why did you go back?" she asked instead.

"Back?"

"To him. To the house that you said felt like Anthony's grave when you were living in it."

"I'm not  _back_ ," Michonne reminded her. "I'm just… there."

"You're in the house. You're seeing Negan every day. The longer you stay, the easier it'll be to fall back into the relationship," Dr. Garvey said evenly.

"Well I'm not there for a relationship, so I'm not worried about that."

"Why are you there?"

She took a deep breath, wiping at her face as she searched for an answer. "Because I feel guilty," she confessed softly. "Knowing what he'd been through… Anthony. His mom. Shit, his dad. Me." Her tears wouldn't stop falling. "He wasn't angry the first time he saw me after I came back. He was… sad. Broken again. I dunno. Maybe I figure if I can get back to myself, I can put him back together one more time."

She smiled warmly at her patient, recognizing this part of her in so many of the women she'd seen. "Michonne, do you think it's your job to fix this man?" she asked her. "Is that something you get paid for?"

"No," she chuckled sadly, through tears.

"Then why are you so committed to doing it?"

Michonne went silent for a long time. She liked that she could take time to think and Dr. Garvey would bear with her through all her awkward pauses. It was a good question that she didn't have an answer to, because it was just second nature to her. Perhaps because she watched her mother do it all her life. She loved her father and appreciated his role in their home, but her mother was  _always_  doing the emotional labor. When Yvonne went astray, their dad wanted to let her fend for herself. He was willing to walk away. It was their mother who always wanted to be there for her, fix her, no matter the cost. She'd picked it up from her, and her mom had probably picked up from her grandmother. "Conditioning?" she smirked.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Garvey pressed. "Society? Your upbringing?"

"I think part of it was in the way I was raised, yeah," she said. She was hesitant to place blame on her parents for any of this – it just seemed so cliché. Was there any good way to prepare your children for the unexpected tragedies of life?

"What do you think the other part is?"

"I dunno, maybe there's some satisfaction in being able to say that I fixed something," Michonne suggested, shaking her head. "Someone."

"Have you thought about maybe putting that energy into fixing yourself?" Dr. Garvey submitted.

"Of course I have," she frowned. "That's why I'm here."

"But you're not  _there_  yet, and you're talking about going and saving somebody else." Dr. Garvey leaned into Michonne, wanting her to take notice and to hear her. "Have you ever thought about the mental toll you took on when you cared for this man you barely knew at the very start of your relationship? You say you were fine at the time. Mentally sound. But think about having to walk around with an extra fifty pounds on your back for a year straight. At some point, you would tire out, right? You would buckle under the undue weight. Luckily, it didn't happen in any noticeable way after the first year, but you just added more and more. New job, new house, baby, marriage. That's a lot, Michonne. These are all stressors, even if they're things you want for your life. They take work, they put a strain you.

"And then you experience this devastating loss," the therapist continued, "and you have so much on your back, you can't even stand anymore. You break, because you  _should_ , because it's too much. And I say that because I want you to ask yourself if you really think you have the space to worry about him and yourself. Going back to your metaphor – you can't save someone else from drowning when you're under water yourself."

The only thing Michonne could do was nod as she cried. She was right. She knew her doctor was right. But it still didn't feel right – in fact, it felt selfish, and even cruel – to just… focus on herself. Why was that? "How…" She let out a heavy exhale, unsure what she even wanted to ask. "How do I get rid of the guilt over leaving?"

"Maybe you can't get rid of it," Dr. Garvey offered, sitting back in her seat again. "You can own it. You walked out on this man who lost many of the same things you did. It happened. Take that responsibility," she encouraged. "What that doesn't mean? Is taking responsibility for  _him_  and how his life turns out post-trauma."

"So if I'm in a relationship with someone, I don't take on their baggage?"

"Are you in a relationship with him?

"No," Michonne answered quickly. "No. But it  _was_  a relationship. It's still… something. And we went through this terrible thing together, but not really, because I was so far gone. So if closure for this… thing exists, then I'd like to try to find it with him. I think we both deserve that."

"That's fair," Dr. Garvey said, writing on her pad again. "Do you think Negan would be willing to come in with you for a few sessions?"

Michonne frowned. She knew he would in a heartbeat, but again, being cut open, and now in front of him? It was so much more than she was prepared for. God. "I think he would," she confirmed.

"It doesn't have to be next week," she said. "You can take a little time to get used to the idea."

Michonne tried to smile at the offer – her discontent was probably written all over her face. "I'll ask him," she nodded.

Dr. Garvey smiled back before scrawling another long note on her page and then she looked back up at Michonne. "Is this a good time to discuss how Rick ties into this?"

Michonne immediately turned fidgety, balling her damp tissues in her fist as she was forced to think about Rick Grimes. Not that she ever  _stopped_  thinking about him, but now she was being forced to address the mess she created for herself by falling in love with him. She'd hoped they could delay this particular conversation a little longer – for when she wasn't still so underneath that situation. "What do you wanna know?"

Dr. Garvey cocked her head, grinning warmly at her again. "You know what I'm going to say."

Michonne sighed. "Rick was… he wasn't supposed to happen," she said, swallowing hard. "I went to Tennessee to get away from the noise of people and their opinions and their help. I chose a place that was secluded to help me with that. But he was there, like... it felt like he was put there specifically for me." Michonne smirked at how ridiculous that sounded out loud, but that didn't make it any less accurate. "I was falling down this hole. Lost, sad, scared. All of it. And Rick... he caught me before I hit the ground."

"He did for you what you did for Negan," Dr. Garvey commented. "What you wouldn't allow Negan to do for you."

Michonne never thought of it that way, but she supposed it was true. "Yes," she confessed.

"Why weren't you ashamed with him?"

"I was," she said, shaking her head. "I never told him what happened to me, because I was ashamed. I don't want him feeling sorry for me. I didn't want him trying to help me." The tears began to stream down her face yet again as she realized just how detrimental that wall between them had been. "He wasn't pulling me out of bed in the morning or anything like that. He just… he was good company. He was easy to be with, and I needed that at the time."

Dr. Garvey wrote another line of notes before asking, "And what changed?"

"He wanted more," Michonne nodded. "We started with casual sex, which was at my behest, but also probably more than I was ready for at the time. But he wanted intimacy."

"How did you react to that?"

"It scared the hell out of me," she chuckled. "But I did it anyway, because I felt safe with him."

"In a way where you  _didn't_  feel safe with Negan?"

"I guess… I felt I was the protector in that relationship," she said after careful thought. "Not that I felt unsafe, but maybe I didn't trust Negan to really have my back. Even when we were engaged, I put money to the side for myself… just in case."

"How much money?"

"Twenty percent of every paycheck. Aside from savings, aside from money we were putting toward the wedding."

"He didn't notice?"

"He probably did," Michonne acknowledged. "Looking back, it felt like cheating in some small way. And in those cases, the partner always knows something, right?" She thought of Rick then and felt pity for him. The very thing she didn't want him to feel for her. "But Negan never said anything."

"So with Rick, you felt like you could trust him," Dr. Garvey said.

It stung to hear those words and know that they were true for her, but not for him. How so much of her relationship with him was like a mirror to her relationship with Negan. "Yeah," she admitted, swallowing again.

"So you had companionship, you had sex, you had a familiarity with his son. You considered this a relationship?"

"Absolutely," Michonne returned without hesitation. "I'd say I was in love with him."

"Then why were you afraid to tell your parents about him?"

"Because… I already felt judged. I already felt like I'd disappointed the hell out of them." she said. "And jumping from relationship to relationship doesn't exactly sound healthy."

"So what did you think would happen if you told them about Rick?" the doctor questioned. "If you already felt judged, what would have changed?"

Michonne laughed again, feeling silly, because that truly never even crossed her mind. What  _did_  it matter? "When you put it that way, I suppose nothing."

"So I want you to think about why you made the conscious choice to push him away. Because you've said that you knew he could hear you."

"I did," she confirmed again.

"And while you have some time this week, please take some time to consider why 'normal' is so important to you. You've said it a few times today, and it seems that it's colored many of your decisions. This fear of feeling judged for not doing what's 'normal.' What's expected."

"Yeah."

"Would you say your sister is 'normal'?" she asked.

"No," Michonne shook her head, having to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

"Do you feel your parents love her any less?" Dr. Garvey prodded. "Did they stop taking her calls? Is she any less welcome in their home?"

"No," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"Parents make mistakes," Dr. Garvey went on. "They don't have all the answers and don't always have the right reactions. And parents of a certain age – black parents, especially – they didn't have therapy widely available to them the way it is now. And I'm sure you know the stigma still attached to seeking help," she said wisely. "So they didn't have someone to coach them through the incredibly daunting task of raising children. No one to remind them to take care of themselves in the process. So sometimes, they do damaging things to their children. They do," she nodded. "But from everything you've told me about them," she gestured to her notepad full of notes on her patient, "I don't see any hint that they would've abandoned you. You didn't even give them the chance to react. And in the process, maybe you cheated yourself out of something you wanted."

Michonne nodded, taking all of it in as she wiped her face again. "Maybe that means I didn't really want it."

"Maybe," Dr. Garvey said, nodding back. "That's something we can certainly explore."

"It felt…" Michonne paused to find her words. "It felt right," she finally said simply. "Even when I was scared, even when I thought I was just using him as a distraction, there was never one false note. It always felt like I was going in the right direction."

"That's important," Dr. Garvey said as she scribbled on her pad once more. "How so?"

"I mean, even if we look solely at the sexual aspect of our relationship. I wanted that connection. I could feel myself turning cold, and I was sort of aching for someone to touch me; to just… remind me I was alive. And Rick seemed nice enough. Attractive. He could be that for me." Michonne smiled. Sadly. "Our first time was disastrous, because I was so out of my mind, but he was with me all the way. He was patient and honest. And when I finally decided I was actually ready, it was the most transcendent experience." She paused to think about that first time in his cabin. God. "And then, I had this realization, like, 'Shit, I've been missing out on so much by shutting down like this.' And that's not to say I immediately unfurled, but I did open up in so many different ways with him. And it felt good to do it. I liked who I was with him."

"Do you like who you are without him?"

"I do, actually," she answered easily. "I was so wrapped up in him, I wasn't really addressing my pain. I put it to the side so I could experience joy with him, but I still wasn't healthy."

She smiled at her answer. "Would you rather be in Tennessee with him right now?"

"With him? I don't know," Michonne replied, taking a long, deep breath as she considered the answer. "As much as I cherish what we had, even if it was only a few months, I don't want to be with someone who doesn't want to be with me."

"Do you understand why he said what he said?"

"I do," she nodded. "He has his own story, his own baggage, and after having to pry me open, I do understand why he said, 'Enough is enough.'"

Dr. Garvey nodded back. "So if he runs in here and pleads for you to come back… if he had the same reaction to you that Negan did when you reunited, what do you think your response would be?"

Michonne smiled at the mere thought of that happening. "The obvious answer is that I would go back in a heartbeat. Initially, I think that's what I'd want," she said. "I miss him every day. I miss Carl. I miss Tennessee, really. But now that I've had some space from it, I'm not sure it's as easy as that. Because even though I understand it intellectually, the way he left hurt like hell. I really fucking lost it. And I don't know if I even want a relationship that can hurt me that badly. Not now."

The doctor smiled warmly and almost proudly at her patient. In just a few short weeks, she'd seen so much growth in this woman. Someone who barely wanted to speak when she began, with much of their first session resulting in silence. But steadily, she'd opened up to her pain, and she was already brighter and wiser for it. Every case was so different, and she never knew which way these things would go – some clients came once and never returned; some had been in therapy for months and even years, and still had trouble applying and sticking to the concepts they discussed. Which was fine and even expected, depending on the level of trauma. But it was always so meaningful for her when she could  _see_  where counseling had benefited someone. Michonne was one of those people.

"Before you get out of here," Dr. Garvey said, taking a glance at her watch, "we should talk about your assignment from last week. "Where are we with Sasha?"

* * *

A couple of days later, Michonne sat staring at the woman she used to call her best friend, waiting for words that weren't angry and accusatory to find her. It was the reason she hadn't done her assignment last week, and why she was so reluctant to do it now – she was still so pissed off. But Michonne knew it was imperative to take her therapy seriously, and after the session she'd just had, she wanted to keep up her progress. So she finally asked Sasha to talk – in a public place, just so she'd be forced to keep her shit together.

"So… are you gonna say anything?" Sasha asked as set down her water glass. They were sitting in a booth at Leon's on Ponce - an old gas station, converted to a restaurant, the scenery much peppier than either of them were feeling at the moment. They were next to a big window, which she'd been using to avert her eyes while she sipped on her water, also waiting for Michonne to speak. It felt like one of those confrontation scenes on  _Real Housewives of Atlanta_ , except they were actually friends.

Michonne shook her head, unsure where to even start. "Why'd you choose him?" she decided to ask, figuring she might as well dig in to the worst of it.

"I didn't," Sasha said. Her eyebrows knitted at the fact that Michonne even thought so.

"You did."

"I didn't," she insisted quietly. "Maybe it seemed like I did because I was mad at you," she offered, "but I always only had your best interests at heart."

"My best interests according to you," Michonne submitted, scoffing. "You were so busy being mad at me, you thought nothing of my mental state – which was precarious, at best – and how it would affect me to have my past thrown at me like that."

"You said you were ready," Sasha reminded her coolly.

"So you dismiss everything I say except that?" she shot back. "Because somehow, I think you would've put me in that position no matter what."

"If you were able to 'fall in love' with Rick, then I thought surely you were ready to face Negan," Sasha shrugged. "Yeah."

"You're so full of shit," Michonne frowned at her, folding her arms over her chest. "I'll tell you what it feels like to me. You got mad that I went away and actually felt better about myself," she said. "That I did  _fall in love_  – thank you for your condescending tone, by the way – with Rick, and could see myself somewhere else other than by your side."

"You felt better about yourself?" Sasha repeated, rolling her eyes. "Is that why you swaddled yourself in some stranger's life and ignored everything about your own? Ignorance really is bliss."

"I didn't ignore you, Sasha. That's so unfair." Michonne smiled, but she was crestfallen to realize just how wide the gap was between them. They couldn't even agree on what the hell happened. "I was the one always reaching out," she said. "I was the one who asked to come see you for the holidays. Maybe I didn't do it on your timeline, but I was in this, trying to balance all of it. How many times have we joked about how you ghost your friends when you meet a new woman? If I did what you did to me, you obviously would've given up on me years ago."

"I did that shit in my twenties," Sasha defended herself. "Imagine disappearing at damn near forty and thinking that's remotely healthy."

"I never said it was healthy. But guess what, bitch – I was sick. I  _am_  sick. I was out of my mind with grief, and you knew that. But the second I stopped leaning on you, you just… gave up on me."

"I  _never_  gave up on you," Sasha retorted. "Clearly, you've forgotten about the fact that I, too, asked to come visit, and you shut me out. And I was hurt, angry, whatever," she agreed, "but I had your back. I'm  _still_  hurt and angry now, but I'm here. I don't run away because things get difficult."

"So you honestly believe blindsiding me with Negan was 'having my back'? How does that work?"

Sasha narrowed her eyes at her. "If you hadn't seen him that night, would you  _really_  have reached out to him?"

"Yes," Michonne insisted. "I was working my way up to it, and you just threw me in the deep end of the pool, not knowing whether I'd sink or swim." She grimaced when she realized she was making another swimming metaphor. "Point being, you don't do that to your best friend."

Sasha sat back in her seat then, softening her stance as she nodded. "I will admit, after Glenn pointed it out, that wasn't the best setting to do that," she said. "I felt like you needed a snap back into reality, but… I didn't think about how it would feel to do it  _there_."

"You didn't think," Michonne said dryly. "Shocking."

"Tell me it didn't work out for you," Sasha retorted smugly. She already knew, thanks to Glenn, that Michonne had been back in Atlanta and finally in therapy. Maybe she wasn't with Rick every day, but at least she was getting the help she needed.

Michonne stared at her friend again, the frown not leaving her face as she saw the end of their friendship looking back at her. "It didn't work out the way I wanted it to," she said simply. Sadly.

"You're being dramatic."

"I don't trust you anymore," she revealed, her voice drowning in her own emotions. Even though she'd said as much to her doctor last week, it gave her pause as she said it to Sasha, knowing how much it would hurt. Because she knew how much it hurt when it was said to her.

Taken aback by that confession, Sasha looked like she'd literally been punched, down to her light brown cheeks turning red. After eighteen years of friendship, she didn't think that could even be a question. She nodded, processing the weight of that distrust. "I just wanted you to be okay," she said earnestly. Her eyes began to water as she thought about the 22-year-old versions of them – moving to Atlanta together with all these dreams for their futures. They were so different now. Older, tireder, more hardened by life. "If that meant sacrificing us, then... I don't know. I guess... it was worth it for you to get better."

"It's that easy to you, huh?" Michonne pushed.

"It's not," she was quick to refute, shaking her head. "I'm a gay black woman. I've been called every name you can think of, on social media and otherwise," she said, knowing Michonne knew that. "My own father told me he'd rather me be straight than happy." She knew that, too. "I've swallowed a lot of hard shit. Hearing that you don't trust me is pretty high on the list of things that hurt me most."

"Well you have a funny way of showing it."

"You want me to sit here and cry for you? Run away to another state? I have to perform my sadness for you to know it's real?"

"Fuck you, Sasha." Michonne angrily wiped at her face as a tear she didn't want to show snuck down her left cheek. "Maybe you do love me in some twisted way, but it's pretty clear it's not in any healthy way. As soon as I found someone I really, really liked, the second it became serious, you stopped caring about our friendship."

Sasha went quiet. She looked back out of the window as she took more sips of her water. "Why do you get to be erratic as fuck when you're in pain, but when I do it, I'm just a heartless bitch?"

"What the hell are you in such pain about?" Michonne asked. "You haven't told me anything."

"I was sad about  _you_ ," she said, feeling as though that should've been obvious. "All these… changes the last year. It was even hard when you were pregnant. I knew our friendship would change, but at least I could still see you. You'd be down the street and I could stop by, even if it was just to take a nap with you." She paused before getting into the hard parts.

"But then you go through this thing and I can't help you. I just have to watch you suffer. But you know, again, at least I could be there for you through it. But no, then you leave. And you won't let me come see you. You tell me about some guy, god knows who the hell he is, but he seems to make you smile, so fine. But  _then_  you just drop this bomb that you're leaving for good?" Sasha also found herself wiping at tears she wished she could've kept hidden. "That's something you would've talked to me about, Michonne. Once upon a time, you would've asked my advice. But you  _tell_  me, out of nowhere, like it's a foregone conclusion, and it felt like you didn't give me a second thought. Here I am worried sick about you and you don't give a shit about me. You gave me up for a guy you 'really, really liked.' How was that supposed to make me feel?"

Michonne nodded sympathetically. And prior to therapy, she probably would've taken this and put it on her back, too. But she wouldn't do that now. Couldn't afford to. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way," she said, speaking solemnly. "But I wasn't giving you up for Rick. I wasn't planning to stop being your friend. I wanted you to meet him and get to hang out with Carl. I wanted you to become friends with Ezekiel. And us and our significant others would go on cool ass trips where we end up on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean. I never, ever saw my life without you until you hurt me. I just had to put myself first. I  _had_  to."

"I'm sorry I forced Negan on you that way," Sasha replied, matching her friend's sincerity. "I saw him… probably about six months ago now. It was on your birthday, actually," she recalled. "He was at the Georgian Terrace, just eating lunch by himself, and he looked so dejected. And I went to say hi because I hadn't seen him since hearing about Lucille, but it was really because I felt guilty. We spoke briefly, and I was kind of stupefied when he talked about losing his baby, his fiancée, and almost his mother, all in just a matter of months. And I hurt for him," she admitted, looking Michonne in the eye. "I saw how he was, and I couldn't see you at all, so… I guess I did take his side in a way. But I never stopped wanting the best for you."

"Unless it meant me staying in Tennessee," Michonne submitted sarcastically.

"Okay, I stopped wanting the best for you then," Sasha confessed with a small smile. "Because how could you be better away from me? From all of us?"

Michonne returned the melancholy smle, wishing it hadn't come to this in order for them to have an honest conversation. Because now… "I don't know where we go from here," she sighed. She picked up her own water, and took a long sip, feeling dehydrated – drained – by their exchange.

"How's therapy going for you?" Sasha asked casually.

"Really well," Michonne nodded.

"You found a doctor you like?" Sasha said. "That was always the hard part for me."

"I actually - I don't mean to be an asshole, but... I don't feel like we're there yet," Michonne shook her head. For her, this wasn't one of those fights where they could just go back to normal after a bit of awkward banter.

Sasha closed her opened mouth before she said something typically acerbic – Michonne clearly wasn't in that kind of mood. "Okay," she said instead. She clearly meant it when she said she didn't trust her anymore. "You think we'll get back there?"

Michonne shook her head again, mostly in response to the idea of going back. It wasn't possible. They couldn't undo their hurts. Maybe, eventually, they'd be okay; perhaps even better in moving forward. But it wouldn't be today. She needed time to figure out whether she still wanted this. "I don't know."

* * *

It was another restless night for Michonne – one of many since being back in Atlanta. It was frustrating, because the nightmares had gone away – she was no longer worried about falling asleep and having to revisit the night of Anthony's birth and death. Now, she simply  _couldn't_  sleep. She'd lie there for hours on end, yearning for it as opposed to fighting it. But her mind wouldn't rest, and so, neither would her body.

Dr. Garvey had referred her to a medical doctor for a Lunesta prescription, but having been with Negan at the height of his Ambien necessity, she was hesitant to actually use it. She'd woken up to strange things some nights – hallucinations and sleepwalking. He woke up in the bathtub one morning. On another instance, he'd gone into the kitchen and started cooking, and she wasn't sure he wouldn't have burned down their apartment if she hadn't caught him. That was scarier to her than not sleeping, so she'd never tried one. Not even half of one, as much as she was tempted tonight. She had a call scheduled with Spencer in the morning, and it would've been nice to be alert for it.

Michonne grabbed her phone from the nightstand to check the time. 1:49.  _Shit._  She'd been at this for two hours now.

It was so hot in her room, which certainly wasn't helping. Negan insisted on having the heat at 72, and anything over 69 was damn near unbearable for her. She usually kept a window open to combat the heat, but even that wasn't saving her. She slipped out of bed and into the hallway to adjust the thermostat to a more normal temperature, hoping he wouldn't notice before morning.

She should've taken him up on his offer to use the master bedroom – formerly,  _their_  bedroom. It was much bigger and therefore cooler than anywhere else in the house. But she didn't want to intrude, even if her name was on the mortgage. She still didn't feel like she lived there; though truth be told, she'd kind of gotten used to it again. Lucille was back in New York for a while, so it was just the two of them, and sometimes, like when she'd wake up and make coffee for two, it was like old times. Before Anthony.

1:49 a.m. She glanced at her phone again, taking note of the date. Friday, March 2. She didn't realize it was March already. Soon, it would be a year since…

But March 2nd was important for a different and almost opposite reason: it was Rick's birthday. She clutched her phone to her chest as if it contained him inside it, and she wondered whether she should say something. If she did, it would be for her own satisfaction – he probably had no desire to hear from her.

She tried to ask herself what her therapist would advise. Not that Dr. Garvey ever told her exactly what to do, but Michonne had to wonder, would she receive an approving smile from her for ignoring this impulse? Or would she question why she wasn't taking a small step toward a possible friendship with Rick? Or would she say this was like reopening a wound? She still hadn't mastered the whole idea of healthy decision-making, obviously.

"Fuck it," Michonne said to herself, unlocking her phone to find his name in the contacts. It automatically brought up their old text message thread from the start of the year. It still hurt to look at the words.  _I can't trust you_. She never responded after that, and he never said anything else. It was pretty tragic to see their whirlwind romance draw to a close like that; not with a bang but a whimper of misery. They deserved a better ending.

And so, she typed out something simple and sweet, and as she pressed Send, tried to convince herself that it didn't matter whether he responded. Practically anything would've been better than the note they'd ended on.

_Hey, Rick. I hope you're well. I was  
_ _having one of my sleepless nights,  
_ _and I had a thought about you_ –  _I  
_ _often have thoughts about you. But  
_ _this one came as I glanced at the  
_ _clock and realized it was your  
_ _birthday. So I hope it's happy. I hope  
_ _you're happy. -Michonne (in case  
_ _you've deleted my number)_

Michonne set her phone back on her nightstand and turned her back to it, wishing for sleep to find her before she could find a way to harp on what she'd said. Or why she'd even put herself in a position to be rejected by him again. She'd been doing so well. Still working through what happened, but she felt good about the progress she was making. Now, one stupid text was going to ruin that –  _especially_  if it went unanswered. She'd have to convince herself that he'd changed his number, knowing damn well he had no idea how to do that. The message went through as blue, so he still had his iPhone. It was a good thing she'd shown him how to turn off his read receipts – otherwise, she'd know for sure he was ignoring her.

As her stream of consciousness kept her awake – because of course it did – her phone vibrated. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard it, relieved that he'd responded, but apprehensive to see what that response was. If he told her to fuck off, or something equally dismissive, she wasn't sure what she would do. Another vibration followed, making for two texts. Shit.

_I'd never delete your number._

_And thank you for the birthday  
_ _wishes. I hope you're doing well too._

After a sigh of relief, Michonne ended up smiling at the messages. Immediately, she felt transported back to Tennessee, and that feeling of being back with him. God, she missed him.

But she didn't know whether she was supposed to respond to that; she didn't want to be overbearing or overfamiliar. She said what she needed to say, and had gotten a kind reply. That was enough. So she sent back a heart emoji – an orange one, for the Vols, which seemed safe – figuring that was a nice cap to the short exchange, and turned back over to go to sleep. After a few minutes, she was  _finally_  drifting off when her phone buzzed again, startling her.

_Can you talk?_

Pleasantly surprised, but also flummoxed by the request, Michonne took a moment to answer. She debated with whether to just call, or reply in the affirmative and wait for him to make the move? She worried about what he wanted to say. Would he explain why he disappeared that way? Would he apologize? Would she seem desperate by being so readily available? It had been two months without a word, so she hoped not. But reimmersing herself in him, just when she was pulling herself out, probably wasn't the smartest route. Maybe even the worst thing she could do for her recovery. But she wouldn't sleep knowing he wanted to speak. Maybe it would even give her some kind of closure, and therefore, some peace.

Yeah, right.

Still, she tapped through the steps to make the call, and he answered on the second ring. "Hey," he greeted her – casual, like there'd been no space between them at all. She imagined him being in that big bed of his, wearing his boxers and maybe a t-shirt, but probably not.

"Hi," she replied quietly.

Rick smiled at the sound of her voice in his ear. A voice he'd missed hopelessly. "You sound different," he said, grinning to himself. "Far away."

"I feel far away," Michonne intimated. She held the phone as close to her face as possible, closing her eyes as she waited for him to speak again, and she would envision his face next to hers.

"Where are you?" he asked, curious as to why she was whispering. Curious as to where she'd been without him.

"I've been back in Atlanta," she answered, and she sounded sad about it. "Where are you?"

"Nashville," he said simply. "I haven't been back to Gatlinburg since… us."

She nodded as if he could see her. "Oh."

"Are you in Atlanta with Sasha?" Rick asked hopefully.

"No… Sasha and I had a bit of a falling out," she sighed, hating to be reminded of it. "I'm back at my… house, I guess."

"Oh," he said, the unspoken question lingering on his lips, all while knowing he didn't have the right to ask it. "With him?"

Michonne inhaled sharply in response. The way he always refused to say Negan's name used to amuse her, but now it bothered her. The question itself was steeped in jealousy, and he wasn't allowed to be that after the way he left. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," she said, her tone the equivalent of a shrug.

"What about your place in Gatlinburg?" he wondered. His voice had turned hoarse as he tried to hold back his emotions.

She smirked to herself. "It was too lonely without you," she said honestly. "It was like... this mausoleum of our time together, and I couldn't stay there."

"That was why I couldn't go back," Rick said. They went quiet for a moment, and he just listened to the sound of her breathing. It reminded him of all those times they'd laid in bed together, just reading. They were good at not talking. It never felt uncomfortable. Even now, when it should've. "I've missed you," he said softly.

Michonne smiled, even as tears stung her eyes. Maybe that was all she needed to hear. "Me, too."

"I shouldn't have left things the way I did."

"No," she agreed.

"But you hurt me."

She nodded, failing to hold back those tears now, as the simple honesty of his words made her ache. "I'm sorry," she said. "I am."

"I'm sorry," he returned. He was clutching his phone, wishing her could hug her; desperate to feel her face against his, her body heat warming him as they embraced. How he regretted the time he'd wasted, being hurt when maybe he could've been happy. It was so hard to know the difference between being smart and being scared.

"Rick?" Michonne called out. She could feel herself slipping into slumber. She always did sleep well with him.

"Yeah?"

"I should go," she said, not wanting to. But if she stayed on the phone any longer, she would be right back where he started.

"Can I see you?" Rick asked, not hesitating. He knew if he did, he would be right back where he started. But every part of him had missed every part of her, and instead of it getting easier to be without her, the days only seemed to get harder. And it wasn't born of loneliness – he was more okay with being alone than he probably should've been. No, it was Michonne he missed. She'd breathed life into him where he didn't know it didn't exist. He was in love with her. He waited with bated breath for her answer.

Michonne wanted so badly say no. She  _should've_. There was always the option of waiting to see what her therapist had to say about it. Or hell, even the clarity of morning, when the fog of all these intense emotions had faded a bit. But the simple truth? She wanted to see him too. "When?" she asked.


	16. Old Flames Can't Hold a Candle to You

**Friday 7:08 PM  
** _Where are you?_

Michonne heard the soft ding of a text message alert and she immediately reached for her phone, even as she navigated her car up the winding roads to her cabin. She was eager to check the message, just in case it was from Rick; but alas, it was Negan. Annoyed, she threw her phone back to her passenger seat and continued up the path.

This ride to Gatlinburg was so much easier than the last, with her sadness having morphed into the confidence she'd been lacking for so many months now. She even felt a hint of excitement tingling in her toes, and she wondered if this was what Rick felt when he was driving in from Nashville every weekend. It was quite different – quite nice – not being the one waiting. To make this journey with a very specific goal in mind, knowing the person you're desperate to see is at the other end of this four-hour drive. No wonder he did it so readily every weekend.

It was probably silly for her to wonder if he'd look any different after only two months, but the thought kept crossing her mind. Would he have shaved? Gained weight? She hoped his hair was still long, the way she liked it. Would it be awkward? Would  _he_  be different? She certainly felt she'd changed, so it wasn't fair to hope nothing about him had. But she was just so curious what it would feel like to be with him as a healthier version of herself.

Strangely enough, Michonne's heart started beating faster when she reached their street and she could see his old Chevy sitting in his driveway. It was a thing that put her at ease – seeing that small reminder that he was still Rick – but her pulse quickened anyway. The effect he had on her, she supposed. She pulled in and parked beside his truck, glancing into it briefly, recalling the quickie that had occurred in it nearly five months ago now. She chuckled to herself. The two of them really did have some good times together. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing in the world, being cocooned in this place, but it –  _he_  – was what she needed at the time.

With a smile on her lips, Michonne hopped out of her Lexus, smoothing the back of her plaid shirt, figuring it a bit wrinkled after the long drive. She got a quick glimpse of herself in the reflection of her window – her messy bun, and the cloth band wrapped around her head still in place. She nervously pulled at the scarf around her neck, loosening it so she could breathe easier. She grabbed her purse and headed up the driveway toward the staircase, her toes still tingling with every step. It was all so familiar yet foreign at the same time. It didn't make sense.

When she reached the staircase, she stopped in her tracks when she realized Rick was standing at the top of them, waiting for her. Her breath caught in her throat as she took him in – those bowlegs and that smirk of his. He was wearing her favorite denim shirt, the one that matched his eyes and showed off his forearms because he always rolled up the sleeves. He hadn't shaved in about three weeks, she could tell, and his facial hair was perfect for it. All the different hues of gray complemented his shirt well. His hair looked wet – darker and curlier than normal – and she wondered if he'd just taken a shower. She couldn't wait to smell him again. His scent, the comfort of it, was one of the things she missed most.

_Used to spend my nights at the barroom  
_ _Liquor was the only love I'd known_

Grinning, she dropped her bag and started up the steps to meet him. Rick was already headed down, because he couldn't take any more of the distance between them, and they met somewhere in the middle. Each seeming to know what the other was thinking, they didn't waste time with words; instead, Rick immediately leaned down to kiss her. It was sweet – soft – at first, in a show of both affection and atonement. But as Michonne's fingers found his hair, as was her wont, he deepened the kiss, in hopes of saying  _everything_  he hadn't in the past two months. As he tenderly slipped his tongue into her mouth, he hoisted her from the steps and into his arms. Michonne broke their kiss, only briefly, to laugh when she felt herself lifted into the air, but she was quick and happy to wrap her legs around his waist and they resumed their kiss.

She'd almost forgotten how good he was with his lips. The way he sucked hers so delicately, and yet, with so much passion. He kissed like it was breathing for him – so utterly natural, she never wanted to stop. And they didn't. Even as Rick turned and headed up the steps, his hand square on her back, as if to keep her safe while they moved. But their mouths never broke contact for more than small breaths of air. Within seconds of seeing each other for the first time since the last time, they were engaged, entranced, in a full-on lip-smacking, tongue-wrestling make out. It was as though they hadn't seen each other in ten years instead of ten weeks.

_But you rescued me from reaching for the bottom  
_ _And brought me back from being too far gone_

Soon after they made it inside, Rick had practically thrown Michonne onto the bed, and he didn't waste any time joining her. The room was already pleasantly warm, thanks to a small fire on the hearth, but it turned hot as soon as he made his way on top of her. He removed the scarf that dressed her neck like he was unwrapping a gift, his tongue then diving for her skin. He relished in the saltiness of her flesh as if it were a meal, taking care to cover every inch of her with his tongue. He kissed her chin and along her jawline and back down again. He unbuttoned her shirt, letting out a series of low moans as he continued down her chest until his tongue was in her cleavage. He was careful and slow to pull down the cups of her bra to reveal her perfect, supple tits. He smiled at the sight of them, propped up by the underwire, her dark brown nipples stiff and protruding, and he sucked them excitedly. Rolling his tongue around one bud and then gently tugging at the other with his teeth before switching. He bathed them with long licks until they went soft and then hard again, all while she tangled her fingers in his curls.

Michonne had been thinking about exactly this on the drive there. Images of him devouring her made the drive much shorter. She anticipated him being so eager to see her, there wouldn't be time or need for words and he'd delivered tenfold, not taking a single second for granted. But she also had every intention of returning the fervor, and she needed to get to him before he did his thing; otherwise, she'd be useless soon. As he sucked on her tits like they were his dinner, she tugged at his hair, attempting to redirect his focus. He obliged by returning his kisses to her lips and she was finally able to undress him too, her fingers blindly fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. As soon as it loosened, she ran her fingers up his bare back and down again, the lines and curves of it so familiar to her, it made her warm inside. That dimple where his backside began, she'd studied it in their previous life together. She attempted to push down his jeans, but didn't get very far as Rick was moving back down her neck, seemingly oblivious to her efforts.

But he could sense her urgency – he felt quite the same way – and he was anxious to disrobe for her. He pulled up from her briefly, licking his swollen lips as he caught his breath and kicked off his shoes. But his eyes stayed on Michonne, her breasts still looking delectable, spilled from her bra and shirt, and he pulled her to the edge of the bed by her leg, making her giggle with glee as he pulled off her boots. She unbuttoned her jeans and he removed those too, leaving him smiling when her sheer, teal thong stared back at him. He was already imagining tonguing her bare pussy as he started to climb back onto the bed, but not before her foot stopped him. She wiggled her toes at the button of his pants, and he instantly took the hint, stepping out of them posthaste.

Michonne also smiled, admiring his naked form as he returned to her, welcoming him between her legs as he resumed his kisses. God, he was such a good kisser. His tongue tangoed with hers, his erection teasing the inside of her thighs, while his fingers dipped inside her underwear, the index and middle penetrating her wet center, leaving her moaning. "Shit," she whispered, breaking their kiss. Her mouth fell open as he went deeper, as he began to lick her tits again, and it was clear he was going to do his best to make her forget her name that night.

_You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey_

Smirking, Rick slowly withdrew his fingers and immediately licked them, wanting her to know just how much he was yearning for her. His dick was hard from just the thought; from just a taste of her sweet pussy. He wanted to take things slow and savor the moment – it was his birthday after all – but his mouth was literally watering for her. He was pulling off Michonne's panties while she sat up to remove her shirt and bra, the two of them working in tandem, like a well-oiled machine. It was a wonder they'd been apart for two months, as it seemed they hadn't missed a beat.

Michonne was also too hungry to take things slow and before either of them knew it, she had Rick's cock in her hand, stroking him gently as she coaxed him onto his back. Her other hand went to his chest, and she sensually ran her fingers downward, through the patch of hair that peppered his lower stomach and trailed down to his dick, watching his tortured expression as she did. Smiling, she went in with her tongue, rolling it along the Adonis belt that defined his hips, his body slightly flinching in response, and she could tell she was tickling him, which amused her. When she reached his peak, she kissed her way up his shaft, and then licked the tip like it was a lollipop, her tongue circling him in long, slow strokes. He was writhing underneath her, his hips trying their best to meet her mouth, and it was the exact reaction she wanted. She moaned quietly as she damn near swallowed him whole, precum already coating the back of her throat, his grip pulling her hair from its bun so that it fell around her face, all of it only encouraging her. Until he stopped her. Just when she was truly getting started.

"Wait, wait, wait," Rick whispered.

Confused, Michonne pulled back and wiped her lips, questioning what she was waiting for. Rick only gestured for her to turn around, and as someone with a fairly tame sex life prior to him, it took her a few beats to figure out what, exactly, he wanted. But she did catch his drift, her stomach filling with butterflies as realization struck, and she repositioned so that she was straddling his face, but still had clear and present access to his dick. She chuckled to herself, in a bit of disbelief that she was doing this without question. But after all the nudes she'd sent, and their many virtual sex sessions, a 69 would probably be considered a mild day.

Rick was licking his lips again as Michonne's ass became his focal point, her pussy practically sitting on his mouth. That familiar sweet musk of her arousal made his dick twitch, and when he felt Michonne's tongue back at work, he wasn't even sure what to focus on. His fingers gripping her backside, he began with a series of kisses to the back of her thighs, tender and short, as if to prepare her for what he was about to do with his tongue. He closed his eyes and gave her already wet slit a long, gentle lick, then used his fingers to touch the hood of her clit, immediately making her shiver on top of him. He smiled. He was going to have fun with this. He let his tongue be his guide and slipped it inside her, his mouth sucking hungrily at her lips. She clenched her lower body, as if to kiss him back, which only sent him deeper, making her wetter. God. He moaned to himself as he explored her; his left hand squeezing her left cheek while the right continued to tease that bundle of nerves that made her squeeze her thighs around his face.

_You're as sweet as strawberry wine_

Michonne could feel her knees weakening as Rick licked her from front to back to front again, his tongue flicking across her most sensitive parts. Her left hand held onto his thigh for dear life, the right simultaneously working his dick, as her sole objective was to drive him as crazy as he was her. With her mouth full of saliva, she rolled her wet tongue around the tip, smiling once again when his hips reacted. He was already hard as a hammer and practically trembling in her mouth, but she was determined. Happily – sloppily – she sucked on his salty skin, licking her way down his long, thick shaft and back up again. Her tongue moved in figure eights around the head, seductively tracing its curves. She memorized every vein as he slid into her mouth and back out. His cum wet her tongue and dribbled down her full lips and she wiped it with her palm so that it wouldn't get in the way of pleasuring him – she wanted him to feel every bit of her hot tongue on his cock. Because she could feel every bit of him eating her pussy like it was his last meal.

She was whimpering again as he sucked her clit and she felt like she was going to pass out from the thrill of it all. Fuck, he was good. Somehow, he was so soft with her, almost delicate, but still quite assertive in his pursuit of her. Her toes were wiggling, her entire body pulsing, and she was practically dripping, she could tell. She could even feel his beard wet against her thighs. It was a wonder her teeth hadn't grazed his dick, because she was desperate to bite down on something.

"Rick," Michonne mumbled before filling her mouth with his scrotum. She juggled his balls in her mouth like they were candy, one, then the other, as her nails dug into his thigh. She could feel his tongue moving backward and showing no signs of stopping, leaving her squirming on top of him. When he went past her perineum and between her cheeks, unabashedly beginning to rim her, she could no longer keep up. She was at his mercy. She simply closed her eyes and let him go to town, desperately gripping the sheets as his tongue devoured her. Back and forth and up and down and inside her, each gesture sending her eyes rolling back further. She'd never had her ass eaten before – hell, she'd barely gotten good head before Rick – but she had obviously been missing out, because  _fuck_. " _Fuck,_ " she breathed.

Rick smiled devilishly as he rolled his tongue between those juicy cheeks of hers. He loved that he'd rendered her incapacitated, forcing her to stop working him, even as his dick was aching for more of her mouth. But he enjoyed getting her off more than anything. She was practically squirting for him, her cum covering his chin as he consumed every bit of her. The room was silent, save for the sound of him feasting on her – the light smack of his lips on her wet flesh, his quiet moans and groans. He could hear Michonne breathing and cursing as her legs squeezed him, practically suffocating him. But what a fucking way to go.

_You're as warm as a glass of brandy_

He ran his tongue back down her pussy until he reached her clit again, and he sucked at the sensitive bud until she came. It was like a button, and all he had to do was press it the right way to make her come unglued. He smiled at the scent of her orgasm as it washed over him; as her slick fluids claimed his tongue. And then, without warning, his climax swiftly followed. Michonne was caught off guard, but she was quick to react and swallowed his seed, licking up his cum like it was melted ice cream. She licked her lips while he did the same from beneath her, leaving her a smiling, satisfied mess. It took everything for her not to collapse on top of him. But his cock was staring her in the face, and she wasn't going to be sated until she felt him inside her.

_And honey I stay stoned on your love all the time_

She finally dismounted his face and rolled onto the bed beside him, needing to catch her breath before resuming. But Rick wasn't interested in taking breaks – they'd already done that; had been apart for too long – and he joined her at the other end. He pulled her into his arms so they were spooning, his erection pressed against her as he covered the back of her neck and shoulders in kisses. She smiled at the sweetness of the gesture, his hands squeezing her breasts, her nipple hardening again under his palm. She felt hot in every sense of the word having him so close. She could feel the wet spots his tongue left on her skin. As his hand traveled southward, down her flat stomach until it reached her clit, she began to roll her hips against him, the length of him slipping between her cheeks making her wet again. He loved the sensation of her skin next to his, all her gorgeous curves that he couldn't wait to take for a ride.

Rick lifted her left leg and immediately guided himself inside her, the feel of her moist pussy sending his head spinning. He exhaled against her as Michonne held onto the mattress and she began to grind with him, sending him deeper. They both grunted quietly when he pulled out and dipped back in, the tip of his dick unexpectedly touching her nerves, making her entire body quiver. He smiled and did it again and then again, appreciating her response to the tease. He did it one more time, his head kissing her lips before he pressed into her finally. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. Holding onto her hips, he buried his lips in her shoulder, his tongue bathing her gorgeous skin, and began to thrust upward.

"Yeah," Michonne whispered back, as if she were answering a question. As Rick's cock hit every spot, as he slid in and out of her like a piston, her mind became a jumble. His hot breath on her neck, his hands moving everywhere, from wrapped around her waist to squeezing her nipple to fingering her, enveloping her in a rhapsodic haze. "God," she whimpered. He was hitting her G-spot with each thrust, and it was taking everything in her not to scream.

She was so deliciously wet, Rick could hear it as they fucked. The sound of him plunging in and out of her was louder than their breathy moans. The smell of sweat and sex filled the room as he moved, her tits bouncing under his grip while he sucked hungrily on her throat. It was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced, the way their bodies connected, moving as one. He was on the brink of an explosion, he could tell; as much as he didn't want to pull out, he desperately needed to before it was too late.

Michonne glanced back, confused as his grinding came to a slow halt, but she contained her frustration, knowing he would only stop out of necessity. She took the opportunity to catch her breath and she wished there was water nearby. But the entire lower half of her body was tingling, screaming, aching for him to be back inside her. "Come back," she exhaled, reaching for him. She felt Rick move from behind her, and before she knew it, she was getting her wish as he flipped her onto her stomach, making her giggle with surprise.

As she positioned on her hands and knees, Rick fingered her from behind, the index and middle digits once again submerging into her wet depths. Her ass in the air had his cock twitching excitedly, and he gave her a light smack, reveling in the way her round cheeks jiggled for him. He bit at his bottom lip as he penetrated her again, and the moan she released sent a delicious quiver down his spine. He loved making her sound like that. Desperate and delighted all at once. He took hold of her hips and started off slow and steady, already in a trance as he watched her cheeks hit his thighs, his dick glistening with her cum each time he pulled out.  _Shit_.

"Shit," Michonne moaned out loud. As he picked up his pace, to the point of pounding into her like a beating drum, her hands balled into fistfuls of sheets, she felt like she was going to combust. "Oh, god," she whimpered. Rick slapped her ass again, and she slipped right over the edge of an orgasm, her legs going numb as her entire body felt like it was erupting. It was the most sublime sensation beginning in her core and resonating in her chest, and made its way all the way down to her toes. It immediately turned her into a useless heap of satisfaction and she knew she didn't have much left for him. "Hurry," she whispered.

Of course, Rick didn't exactly need the direction. He'd been holding it in for minutes on end, so it was true relief when he felt her finish, that warm gush telling him the coast was clear. He gave her a few final strokes, squeezing her backside just before pulling out. He ejaculated with a heavy, happy grunt, his cum decorating her back, while the rest of him just tried to come down from the magnificent high of sex with this perfect woman.

_I've looked for love in all the same old places_  
_Found the bottom of the bottle's always dry_  
_But when you poured out your heart, I didn't waste it  
_ _'Cause there's nothing like your love to get me high_

With an exhausted, ecstatic sigh, he fell into the sheets and Michonne came with him, neither of them caring about the messiness of it all. They'd worn each other out, and just wanted to be close now. They needed to be.

Rick smiled to himself as he welcomed Michonne into his arms, him spooning her, the way they used to, and he began to absently caress the top of her head. He'd missed feeling her hair in his hands. "Hey," he greeted her, his voice hoarse, as if he'd just been roused from a deep sleep. Which made sense, because Michonne had absolutely awakened something within him. He loved that they were the type of people who didn't bother with salutations upon seeing each other for the first time in months. In fact, their reunion hadn't come with many words at all – their bodies did most of the talking, the sex their conversation.

Michonne smiled, laughing quietly, because she'd picked up on it, too. "Hi," she said, turning her head back to him, unsuccessful in actually seeing his face. The room was so warm, the muted fire creating the perfect glow to match their post-coital bliss. She ran her fingers over his arm hair as her eyes closed, and she was already on the verge of falling asleep. The way she always did with him. "Happy birthday," she added.

"Hmm," he chuckled back. He wasn't a big birthday guy – he never was, but certainly after Carl; his had become the one that mattered every year. But if Rick had to choose a gift, he couldn't think of anything better than being with Michonne again. "Happy birthday, indeed."

_And you're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey_  
_You're as sweet as strawberry wine_  
_You're as warm as a glass of brandy  
_ _And honey I stay stoned on your love all the time_

* * *

The next morning, after a wondrous night of sex and then more sex, Michonne awoke first, peeling her face from Rick's chest after hours of skin to skin contact. She had a headache that felt like a hangover, which was apt, as she'd been intoxicated by the man beside her. Her entire body, even her jaw, ached from the workout, and she couldn't bring herself to move, so she simply stared into the distance at the view of the trees outside, the sun staring back. The promise of spring was in the air back in Atlanta, she noticed, with green leaves just beginning to sprout on the branches. She remembered Carol telling her it tended to snow well into March there in Gatlinburg, but she was pretty curious to see what April was like in the mountains. An indication, perhaps, that this was where she wanted to be in the end. She still had so many things to figure out.

But she didn't want to think about that now. She just wanted to be with Rick. Yawning, she ran her hand along his torso, reveling in the feel of his warm skin under her fingertips. Part of her hoped it would wake him, as she didn't want to waste their weekend sleeping. But the other part loved watching him sleep. She finally forced herself from his chest and took to her own pillow so that she could see his face. It made her giggle, the way he slept so still, so straight, almost like a dead person. Then again, he was probably just as weary as she was.

"What are you laughin' at," Rick questioned groggily. He hadn't yet opened his eyes, but he found himself awake the instant Michonne moved.

"I'm laughing at how you sleep like a corpse," she answered honestly, a smile on her lips as her fingers continued through his light chest hair.

"Well that's probably because you almost killed me last night," he smirked.

"Fair enough."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Just a couple of minutes," Michonne said.

Finally opening his eyes to the day, Rick turned to her, his amusement written all over his face as their eyes locked. He used his index finger to lower their sheet and expose one of her breasts, reaching out to touch it, her nipple immediately turning stiff as he grazed it. He leaned in to kiss her, and as he felt the pull of her lips, he eagerly moved to get in position on top of her.

Michonne enjoyed his kisses, morning breath and all, more than she should probably admit, and as his lips traveled down her body, the less she wanted him to stop. But she also didn't want to spend the entire weekend having sex – and so far, it was all they'd done. "Wait," she chuckled, holding onto his shoulders. She was reminded of their first time together as her fingers involuntarily studied his firm muscles.

"What's wrong?" he asked innocently. He couldn't glean anything from the amused look on her face, but he wondered if it had anything to do with the lack of condoms the night before. She'd become less stringent over time, but he'd gotten so caught up in the moment, he hadn't even thought about it until they were done. "I've been good at pullin' out," he reminded her, hoping that would work as some sort of comfort.

She laughed animatedly. "Get outta here," she grinned. She could feel his dick teasing her slit, and she needed to get from beneath him before she gave in again. "We don't have anything for breakfast," she whispered, looking him in the eye.

"I guess it's a good thing you're the only thing I wanna eat," he quipped.

Her face grew warm, and even her cheeks were sore from smiling so hard. "You're a mess."

Rick leaned in to give her neck another kiss, long and tender, before pulling back again. "I brought you some food."

"Your penis doesn't count as nourishment," she teased.

He made a face and refrained from joking that he seemed to fill her up just fine. "No, I stopped at Whole Foods on the way up," he said, smiling at her sleepily. "I know how you feel about the produce around here."

She grinned again, appreciating that he knew that about her. In so many ways, as the sex had proven, he knew  _her_. "Well… thank you."

"So we can work up an appetite," Rick offered as his lips went for her chest. He kissed around her breast, then his tongue went circling her areola before he sucked at her rigid nipple. He smiled when he felt her fingers in his hair, but that enjoyment didn't last long.

"Wait, wait, wait," Michonne continued to giggle, tickled by his tongue.

Rick stopped again, pulling back to gaze at her curiously. She loved morning sex. They'd discovered early on that they preferred it over everything else. She was so wet in the mornings, eating her pussy was like biting into a piece of fruit. He was getting aroused at just the thought. But the look in her eyes told him her mind was elsewhere, and wherever it was, he wanted to go with her. "What is it?" he asked, gently rubbing her arm.

"Nothing," she promised with a quiet smile. "I just missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"And I don't wanna spend the weekend just having sex," she said.

"Okay," Rick nodded. He left a chaste kiss on her lips before slowly rolling back to his side of the bed. "Whatever you wanna do is fine with me," he said. "We can just stare at each other all weekend, for all I care."

Michonne grinned again. She was happy to do that, too. And she did, for a long time. Her eyes locked on him, wondering what he was thinking; what he saw when looked back at her; what he was hoping for at the end of these two days. She wished she could see into his mind. She imagined he'd yearned for the same on so many occasions back when they were… together.

She thought about it as if it were so long ago. In a lot of ways, it felt like it was. She was so different from that woman. But he seemed very much the same, and she wasn't sure what that meant. If anything. She still hated the way things fell apart between them, and it was hard for her to push it down. "Where have you been?" she eventually whispered. That was what came out of her mouth, even though she meant,  _why did you leave_? She stared into his eyes, searching for the answer to that question instead. She almost wished she could erase the last two months and they could just pick up where they left off.

"I've been... home," he answered earnestly, a quiet chuckle following, as he was unsure what to say. To recap the last few months would've been boring, to say the least. He'd gone back to his life before he met Michonne. "Just working. Taking care of Carl," he said, shrugging with one shoulder.

She nodded.

"I thought about calling you every day," he admitted. "But then I thought it might be cruel to pull you back in… to even attempt to… if I wasn't sure what I wanted."

Michonne looked down, not necessarily guiltily, but knowingly.

"I have dreams about you." A small smile spread across his face, claiming his eyes even more than his lips. "When I saw your name pop up on my phone the other night, I thought I was dreamin' again. I didn't even remember it was my birthday, and you just… you appeared, and it made me smile. And I knew what I wanted."

She looked up then, his gaze holding onto hers for dear life and she had to hold back her tears. How sweet it was to hear him say that he wanted her. After all the pain of the last two months, the regret that had consumed her. Being with him, like this, it felt like a balm for the wound that was left when they ended. She leaned in to kiss him softly. Briefly. Her lips saying what had been on her mind since they locked eyes on one another the night before –  _How I've missed you, my love_.

Rick groaned happily at the sensation of her soft lips against his, and then again when she pulled away. "Where are you going," he sighed, opening his eyes to see her naked form climbing out of bed. He reached out for her, but she was already gone and slipping into her panties.

"Go get our food," Michonne instructed. Smirking, she threw on his denim shirt, only fastening a few buttons as she watched him roll out of bed, too. "Are you as sore as I am?" she asked, noting how sluggishly he was moving.

"We're so old," he confirmed, sauntering across the small bedroom space to find his jeans on the floor.

She chuckled as he shuffled out of the door, and she headed into the kitchen to retrieve pots and pans for whatever meal they would decide on. She recalled the first time she spent the night there – accidentally – and awoke to find Rick in this very spot, making breakfast for the two of them. It was crazy to think about how reckless that was, getting drunk with a stranger and falling asleep in his home. That could've turned out incredibly badly for her. Shit, maybe it still would. But she supposed a part of her simply trusted him from the start. She laughed to herself thinking about it now.

Rick soon returned with his arms full of groceries – mostly fruits and vegetables, as mentioned, but also steaks and bacon, eggs, bread, juice. Enough to get them through the weekend and then a little more. "Everything's still cold," he declared, knowing she would ask why he left it in the car overnight.

Michonne smiled at the way he'd read her mind, and quietly, the two of them began to unload the bags. She washed off a few strawberries for them to share while he set aside the breakfast items. "You still have some grits from before," she commented, knowing from the last time she was there. Alone. "We could do that, bacon, and eggs?"

"Sounds good," Rick nodded. "And toast."

"Okay," she grinned back. On her way to the pantry, she planted a quick kiss on his bare chest as she passed him.

They continued to flirt their way through breakfast prep, sharing little touches and kisses because they couldn't stay away from one another, as Michonne cooked their grits and Rick took on the duty of bacon. But mostly, there was that comfortable silence between them again, their actions taking the place of words, giving a quiet ease to their morning.

Rick stopped for a moment, as the bacon sizzled, just to watch Michonne, walking around in his shirt and basically nothing else, and again, he wished he hadn't let her go for even a moment. Thinking he could've gone on without her, without this, was insane. He'd found this woman who checked off boxes he didn't even know he had; she'd changed him, she'd challenged him. She held his heart in her hands for this little moment in time, but he'd gotten so scared of her crushing it, he tried to take it back. Not even realizing it was already hers.

"I forgot to tell you," he started to say, popping a blueberry in his mouth now, "Lori's movin' out of the house."

Michonne turned back to him, her raised eyebrows conveying that she was both surprised and impressed. "Wow," she smiled tentatively, as if she were unsure whether to believe him. "Really?"

"I told her I was selling the house," he shrugged. "Her and Shane found somethin' a little smaller out in Spring Hill. It's about twenty-five minutes from me and the school, so she's not too happy about that, but I think some distance will be good for all of us."

"Have you seen this house yet?" she questioned skeptically. It wasn't like she knew Lori well enough to think of her as deceitful, but based on what Rick had told her, she didn't put anything past the woman.

"Not yet," he chuckled, catching her drift. "But they move in a few weeks. While Carl is on spring break."

Michonne nodded, satisfied, as she stirred her grits. The mention of Carl made her ache, pangs of sadness settling in the pit of her stomach. Not unusual. But instead of just thinking of Anthony, she was reminded of how much she missed Rick's son, too. It'd been so long. "I'm really glad to hear that," she said, ignoring the pain. "I'm proud of you."

"It was time," he nodded, leaning against the counter as he looked to the floor. "You were right. About me needing to set boundaries."

"How'd it feel?"

"It felt good," he chuckled, emphasizing the 'good'. "There was somethin' cathartic about just letting it out. Letting her  _go_  and… bein' able to acknowledge that she's just not my responsibility anymore."

Michonne nodded, again, understanding him far too well. She awaited – she  _welcomed_  – the day she felt that with Negan. She went back to the stove, but only to turn off the bacon and unfinished grits – she didn't want them to interrupt what she was about to say. With Rick watching her curiously, she nimbly pulled herself onto the open counter space across from the stove. "I have something to tell you, too," she said.

Rick's eyebrows quirked with silent curiosity. Here he thought she was initiating more sex, but this seemed serious, so he turned serious, too. He went to her, standing in front of her, his hands resting on her thighs. "Okay."

"I started going to therapy," she revealed, her voice low and soft as she avoided his gaze at first, focusing on his hands instead. She let the words hang in the air for several beats before allowing herself to look him in the eye; to see his reaction.

He smiled. That smile that made his eyes twinkle. "I'm proud of  _you_ ," he said, his thumb affectionately rubbing her skin. "I really am."

Michonne shrugged. "After what happened with us, I really… lost it," she confessed. "I couldn't avoid it anymore."

Rick nodded, but hated to hear that he'd played any part in her collapse. "I'm sorry," he returned genuinely. "I didn't know."

She shook her head, not needing him to apologize for that. She'd chosen how to respond, and that wasn't on him. "We talk about you," she said, the inkling of a smile playing on her lips.

"Oh," he replied and he felt his heart skip a beat. No one wants to ever be on the receiving end of, 'I talk to my therapist about you.' Jesus. "In a good way, I hope?"

"There's no good or bad," she shrugged again. "There's just the truth."

"Okay," he nodded, unsure what that meant. He suddenly felt nervous about what she had to say.

"I had to discuss why I was so scared of letting you all the way in," Michonne went on. She stared at the freckles on his nose as she spoke, because she couldn't quite bear to look him in the eye. "And the truth is, it was because I didn't want you to know I'd lost a baby," she said cautiously, her bottom lip quivering before she could say more.

"Michonne," he exhaled sadly, taking one of her hands.

" _That's_  why I came here," she said, realizing this was something he'd wanted to know for months now. "It's why I found you, in the end, I suppose." She wiped at the tears that had begun to fall; they came faster than she could express her thoughts. "His name was Anthony Andre. And I carried him for eight months, and he died in my arms in less than five minutes," she said, nodding as the nightmare of it all came back to her. "And I wanted to go with him," she continued. "I wanted it so badly, they had to sedate me there in the hospital." She swallowed hard, unable to even see him anymore through the blur of her tears. "After a few weeks, there were a couple of times I sincerely contemplated walking into traffic so I could just… end this pain." She stopped and sighed, knowing she was laying a lot on Rick's doorstep. But he wanted to know, and she felt safe enough, finally, to tell him. Not even Dr. Garvey was privy to her suicidal thoughts. Nobody but him. And she could only hope he wouldn't treat her like some wounded animal after all was said and done. He squeezed her hands, but his head stayed bowed as he simply listened to her.

"So I came here," Michonne went on. "Because I was so fucking tired of people looking at me like I was sick or… sad," she said. "I was, but… I didn't want anyone trying to make me better. Negan wanted to. God knows he did. But he couldn't -  _I wouldn't_  let him. So I left," she nodded. "Without proper warning or even the right words. A little while after I got here, he left me this voicemail… calling me names. He told me to leave him alone since I 'couldn't give him anything else.'" She laughed sadly when Rick frowned up at her, seemingly offended on her behalf, which she appreciated. He was good that way. "I knew he didn't mean it in the shitty way it sounded. I left without a word and he'd been begging to speak with me. But I was so desperate for an excuse not to feel guilty about leaving, I held on to whatever I could. I used it as a reason to move on. With you."

She shook her head and wiped away more tears as she tried to recount the last year of her life without having to relive it. "And meeting you, it was just… it was a breath of fresh air to to have someone who didn't know," she said. "I just wanted you to see me without this tragic backstory. I wanted a relationship… I wanted a  _life_  where I wasn't attached to my grief. And I know now that all it did was put a wall between us, and that wasn't fair to you. It wasn't fair to me," she appended with another quiet laugh. "We never had a real chance, because I held us back."

"No," Rick cut in looking up at her; not wanting to let her blame herself. "I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was somethin', and I shouldn't have put so much pressure on you."

"You just asked me to be good to you," she smiled glumly. "And I didn't always know how to do that." She closed her eyes as he kissed her left hand, and she ran her right through the curls of his lowered head. He was kind. And he was beautiful. And all of this only served to remind her that she probably never deserved him in the first place. "I just thought you deserved to know," she said, as if to put a cap on the conversation. She chuckled to herself ruefully. "It was such a small thing in hindsight."

"It's not," he replied.

"No, what happened wasn't," she agreed. "But the reason I kept it from you was. Especially for it to change the entire course of our relationship. It became the reason you don't trust me."

It was Rick's turn to inhale and exhale shakily – with shame. He looked up at her guiltily. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, if that was the truth…"

"It wasn't."

"It was," Michonne insisted. "I mean, I know you trust me in some ways. You wouldn't be standing here otherwise. But you needed to trust that I wouldn't hurt you, and I couldn't give you that," she acknowledged with a sad nod. "I'm sorry I gave you this so late."

"I don't care how long it took," Rick said. "You needed to grieve, and I didn't give  _you_  that." He swallowed hard, hating himself for not seeing it. For not being better – softer, easier – for her. His time with Lori had hardened him in ways he hadn't noticed and didn't like. " _I'm_  sorry," he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Michonne."

She let out a small hiccup as she tried to hold back more tears, but it didn't work. It felt so good to get that off of her chest. To be free from the weight of this unnecessary secret, allowing Rick to see her completely – bruises and all. And to receive an apology she never needed or expected, it left her feeling hopeful, confused, relieved, aggrieved. Her emotions were all over the place. Rick wiped her tears as they continued to fall, and she nodded, accepting and appreciating the affectionate gesture. "We should eat," she sniffled, helping him wipe her face. "I should've done that after breakfast."

"No, I'm glad you didn't wait," he said. He held her hands in his and rested his head against her chest, desperate to simply be close to her. "Feels like a new start for us."

Michonne nodded again, despite him being unable to see her. She nodded, not in agreement, but understanding, and she came so close to telling him how badly she wanted that to be true. "We should eat," she whispered.

* * *

" _Shit_."

Rick glanced across the small bathroom to see Michonne on her phone, obviously dismayed by whatever was on it. His stomach dropped with worry that she would have to suddenly leave, perhaps because Negan was calling, needing her home. "What is it?" he asked warily.

Michonne finished undressing, stepping out of her panties and unhooking her bra before bringing her phone to Rick so that he could see for himself. "From Sasha," she explained before he got too far into the message.

**Saturday 9:03 PM** __  
_Hey, it's me again. I know shit is_  
_hella awkward between us, and_  
_maybe that won't change, but our_  
_last conversation didn't exactly lend_  
_itself to this news, and I really_  
_wanted you to know that Rosi and I_  
_are getting married. It happened_  
_less than a month ago – on_  
_Valentine's Day, because we're lame_  
_that way – so you didn't miss a lot._  
_We've also decided, despite_  
_ourselves, we want a wedding._  
_Nothing too fancy, but something to_  
_celebrate. Memorial Day. Under_  
_normal circumstances, I would go_  
_all out and send you some elaborate_  
_Save the Date, along with an invite_  
_to be one of my bridesmaids. But_  
_Lord knows nothing about our_  
_circumstances are normal right now._  
_So I'm just going to ask you here,_  
_with the hope that you'll respond._  
_Ty will be the best man, so you_  
_needn't worry about having a heap_  
_of responsibilities thrown at you._  
_And I will understand if you decline._  
_But I wanted to ask, because I want_  
_you there. I want to believe we can_  
_still be friends. Maybe not like we_  
_were, and I know that's mostly my_  
_fault, but something. So – won't you  
_ _be my bridesmaid?_

"Wow," Rick commented, unsure how to respond given what Michonne had told him about their crumbling friendship. "How do you feel about that?" he asked, handing her phone back.

"I don't know." She sat it on the counter and then returned to him and their bath, carefully stepping inside of the full tub, taking care not to step on anything he – or she, for that matter – deemed precious. "I guess it's nice," she said unconvincingly. "But now she's put me in a position where I have to turn her down, which is kind of fucked up in its own way."

He watched as she settled into the water opposite him, part of him instinctively looking for hints of where and how she'd carried her child. They'd been naked together so many times, and he'd noticed everything about her, even the stretch marks that showed on her flat belly and spanned her hips and the insides of her thighs, but he never attributed them to anything. Now, he wondered if they were signs of her pregnancy... scars from her past. "I take it you didn't know she was getting married," he went on with the conversation.

Michonne shook her head. "We saw each other a couple of days ago and she didn't mention it. Not that I let her, but…" She shrugged. "After that conversation, I can't imagine she'd think I'd say yes."

"It was that bad?"

"I wouldn't say  _bad_ ," she replied thoughtfully. She ran her fingers through the hot water until she was touching Rick's leg and she rested her hand there. "I just don't know if our relationship has a future."

Rick looked down contemplatively. He didn't know why it felt like she was saying the words to him. "Well if she wants you to be in her wedding, she's probably hoping it does."

"Yeah, but it's not just about what she wants," Michonne replied.

"Fair enough," Rick conceded, smiling as he gazed at her. "Don't do it if you don't want to. But don't give up on her out of sheer stubbornness. Take it from me."

Michonne smiled back, glad that he could see the parallel. She had to admit to herself that it stung a bit to find out via text that Sasha and Rosita were getting married, but she supposed this would be the new norm for their relationship – or lack thereof – even if they did find some way to be friendly going forward. "I can't believe I haven't seen you since you went to Paris," she said, opting to change subjects. Sasha would likely be a sore one for a while. "It seems like another lifetime ago, doesn't it?"

"You don't wanna talk about Sasha anymore, I take it," he said, smirking as he took her foot into his hands.

"Not really," she admitted with a weak grin. "It's exhausting to think about what we were and what we aren't anymore."

"Subject change it is, then."

"Tell me about Carl," she asked hopefully. They'd been together for 24 hours now, and they'd barely spoken of him. She'd been hesitant to bring him up, particularly with the 'I can't trust you' hanging over their heads – she knew a lot of that was wrapped up in Carl and Rick needing to protect him. But she'd missed him so much, and if she couldn't see him, the least she could get was an update on what he was up to.

"Carl's good," Rick promised with an enthusiastic nod, just as his fingers began to knead Michonne's foot under the water. "He's gonna be one of the leads in the third grade play at the end of the month," He chuckled thinking about it.

"Really?" Michonne grinned genuinely now, amused as she imagined Carl acting. He was already such a character on his own.

"The story is about this princess who's in hiding because her evil stepmother has stolen her spot as queen. So the princess hires an inspector to recover this stolen medallion that proves she's the rightful heir," he explained. "Carl's playin' the inspector," he laughed again. "It's a comedic thing."

"I love it," she giggled.

"He's a natural at it, too," Rick smiled. "We've been rehearsing at home the last couple of weeks, and I swear he's gonna be a comedian."

"I can see that being true," she submitted. Her eyes involuntarily closed as Rick continued to massage her foot, her entire body slipping further into the water until the bubbles were up to her collarbone. "Please tell me you'll be recording it," she sighed happily.

"I will," he confirmed, smirking at her relaxed expression. "But you should also just come see it for yourself."

Michonne squirmed in reply, and she had to pretend that it was just because of the massage. "I don't… know if that's a good idea," she said, opening her eyes again.

Rick frowned as his grip on her foot loosened. "Why's that?"

"I just…" She let out a sigh, unsure how this would sound coming out of her mouth. She needed to be careful here, in all the ways she hadn't been with him before. "I don't know that I'm ready... to return to that part just yet," she said, hoping he'd recognize her sincerity, even if vague. "I should see what my therapist thinks first."

"Oh," he replied, nodding as he considered what that meant; as he realized how things would inevitably have to change between them. She had a therapist now. It was like meeting a new Michonne – healthier, stronger. "Okay," he said, trying to sound encouraging. He'd already gotten excited for Carl to see her again, but it made sense that she wasn't ready to jump back in, head first. The fact that she ever did so in the first place was a bit of a miracle. "Whenever you're ready… whatever you wanna do."

She smiled gratefully. "What's the date?"

"March twenty-third. Right before spring break."

Her thoughts went to Anthony, recalling being released from the hospital on that date last year. "I'll let you know?"

"Of course," Rick agreed, hoping it sounded breezy. Now, he was the one eager to change the subject, feeling like he'd been thoughtless to even ask in the first place. "So how's it been bein' back in Atlanta?" he wondered. He supposed this was his way of asking more about Negan, though he could never really bring himself to say the name. It always felt like one of them was the other man, but at any given moment, he couldn't distinguish which. Another aftereffect of his relationship with Lori.

"It's been… good," she nodded, surprised by her own answer. "I mean, it's odd. Not speaking to Sasha. It's even odder to live with my ex. Where… there's a comfort there," she said, and it sounded like she was asking herself, "but more than anything, we both just sort of walk on eggshells around each other. Pretending I didn't break his heart."

Rick stopped massaging her foot altogether, letting it simply rest in his lap. He didn't know what to say to that. "Kinda like us, huh?" he commented quietly.

Michonne smirked knowingly. There was certainly something different between them, especially after she told him about Anthony, but it wasn't at all the brokenness or barrenness of what she had with Negan. "Not like us," she promised, her toe running up and down his flat stomach. "I think, intellectually, he understands why I'm there. But it feels like there's still hope there. He doesn't understand that our relationship ended with Anthony, and I don't know how else to say it."

"Why are you there?" Rick questioned.

"Because it's my house," she chuckled softly at the simple answer. "It was either there or here, and I couldn't be here."

He nodded.

"But now that I feel much less... lost, I'm gonna be leaving soon, and I'm not sure how that's gonna go."

He offered a sympathetic smile, mostly for the other guy. "If I were him, I wouldn't wanna let you go either."

"You're sweet," she grinned.

"Does he know where you are?" he asked.

"No," she answered quickly. She stared at Rick, waiting for him to judge her for it.

"Does he know about me?"

"I've tried to tell him," she said, "but... he doesn't wanna know about you."

Rick nodded again, understanding that sentiment all too well. "What must it be like to have people just fall in love with you wherever you go?"

Michonne snorted and then giggled in amusement. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

"It's true," he grinned. "Even my brothers, who're as gay as the day is long." Both of them laughed until he was left staring at her; her body and face glistening with water. She was so beautiful, it didn't make sense. "People adore you, Michonne," he said seriously. "Maybe not always the right way or at the right time, but they do.  _I_  do. And I'm so sorry that I ever, for a second, made you feel otherwise."

Michonne dropped his earnest gaze, feeling herself falling back under his spell, just as she knew she would. Her plans to just enjoy this weekend and go back to real life at the end of it were becoming increasingly impossible with every second they spent together. She could live in this bathtub, just the two of them being naked and honest with each other. Even as he insisted on apologizing to her over and over again. She knew it was because he felt guilty, knowing her story now. It was everything she didn't want, and still, she couldn't think of anything better than this. "Come here," she whispered confidently.

"What?" Rick chuckled, questioning where he was supposed to go.

Michonne only gestured with her index finger for him to join her on her end of the tub.

He grinned in reply, all too happy to oblige as she spread her legs, allowing him to slip between them. The two of them giggling amusedly as he did indeed slip and slide his way into her arms, giving her a wet kiss, his hands squeezing her body.

* * *

**Saturday 11:22 PM** _  
_ _Michonne, are you ok?_

**Sunday 7:16 AM** __  
_Sorry, been busy. Had something  
_ _to take care of. I'll be back tomorrow._

With a small sigh, Michonne threw her phone and Negan's concern back to her nightstand and turned toward Rick – again, fast asleep and basking in the morning light, because they'd exhausted one another the night before. Sunday had come much faster than she was prepared for, and with only a matter of hours left together, she didn't want to waste any minute of it. "Wake up," she whispered, wrapping her arm around his naked waist. She used her fingers to tickle him, in hopes of cajoling him awake. "Rick..."

"Hmm," he responded, the rasp of his voice filling the room. He could feel her leg wrapped around him, which made him smile sleepily.

"It's a quarter after seven," she announced quietly. "What time do you have to leave?"

"Not until two or three," he yawned, reluctantly opening his eyes to the light. It felt a bit like deja vu, waking up this way for the second day in a row – especially after so many mornings of waking up alone. "We can sleep in," he said.

"I don't wanna sleep," Michonne said suggestively. Her hand trailed down his waist to his pelvis, until her fingers were brushing his pubic hair, and she felt his hips respond to the contact. "Unless you're too tired…"

"I'm never too tired for you." He supplemented his words with a weak smirk as her hand continued to his dick – already semi-erect, by nature of it being morning – and closed his eyes as she massaged him toward a full erection. In truth, he was pretty damn spent – the amount of sex they'd had in 36 hours put their previous record to shame – but he was eager and willing to keep making up for lost time. Even if it meant not being able to walk for the next week.

"You always have the right response," she grinned. She was already throwing back the covers so that she could mount him, using his hard torso as something to hold onto as she got into place.

Rick stared up at her, his hands resting on her backside as the sun beamed through her locs, turning her dark brown hair a golden hue. "This is new," he commented, referring to the position.

"What is?" she frowned.

"You on top," he said, biting at his bottom lip as his gaze danced down her body, her full tits staring back at him. Her hard nipples left him licking his lips.

"I get on top sometimes," she returned coolly.

"Rarely," he replied, his eyebrows raised to match his matter-of-fact tone. His hands were squeezing her cheeks already. "I think I'd know..."

"I think you're misremembering."

"I think I remember you tellin' me how you get tired bein' on top, so I try to make sure you're not."

Michonne thought back to as many of their times together as she could, and she had to admit that he was right. Since they'd started having sex – actual intercourse and not just the version where she insisted on giving without receiving – it  _was_  typically him doing the bulk of the work. As well as making sure she got off first. 'Early and often' seemed to be his MO. If she didn't know any better, she would think Rick was a unicorn. He was just so rare. "All right," she relented, trying to contain her smile. "Well I got you today." She began to rub her fingers along her clit to arouse herself while Rick watched, her body gently writhing with his hard dick underneath her.

He tried to simply breathe through it, but her pussy rubbing against him had him already feeling like he was going to burst. Which was a reminder that he wouldn't be able to pull out if she was on top. "I'll let you know when I'm close," he suggested.

Michonne nodded, but she was in her own zone as she fingered herself, his hands clutching her ass seeming to get her wetter by the second. She briefly lifted her body, stroking his length before inserting him inside her and then carefully sinking down. She let out a soft moan as the tip of his cock touched her opening, and before she knew it, he was filling her completely. "Fuck," she exhaled. It was such a different sensation than when Rick would gently push into her, inch by inch. She was taking all of him, which left her mouth hanging open as she tried to adjust to the feeling.

"Shit," Rick agreed. She was so wet, he could hear himself inside her as she began to roll her hips. " _Shit_." She started with a slow grind that immediately had his eyes rolling to the back of his head as she squeezed her walls around him. As if she wasn't already a tight fit, that extra effort had him in a stupor, slack-jawed and moaning with every clench of her muscles. "Michonne," he breathed.

She smiled at his reaction and she grabbed the headboard to help her establish a rhythm. God, he felt good. Being full of him, it was heady and thrilling, the way she could feel every curve of him against her, the friction of his thick shaft rubbing against her clit, driving her out of her mind. She fucked him slowly at first, like she was giving a lap dance to some downtempo, sensual beat in her head, her hips swerving in circles around his dick.

She only picked up her pace when she felt Rick's hands between her cheeks, his fingers doing the same things his tongue had done two nights prior, surprising her in the most perfect way.  _Shit_. "Rick," she mewled, breathless as the seconds turned to minutes, and she could feel her back become slick with sweat in his hands; as her thighs began to cramp, dueling with the sheer pleasure of it all. Suddenly, she felt his lips wrap around her left nipple and her mind turned chaotic with all the different sensations. His hot tongue on her tits, his long cock sliding in and out of her as the room turned into an inferno. Falling on top of him, she traded her hold on the headboard for the sheets, gripping them like handlebars as she continued to ride Rick like a fucking rollercoaster.

Rick could barely breathe underneath her, his mouth full of her breast as she began to bounce on top of him, and he could feel her perfect ass jiggling against him, her cum dripping onto his thighs. He grunted with delight each time she descended, and he could feel himself filling her to the hilt. She was so fucking wet, it felt like he was drowning in her pussy, and well… what a heavenly way to die. He had one hand on her ass, the other squeezing her breast as he continued to feverishly suck her nipple, the feeling of her luscious flesh in his hands making him even harder. It didn't quite make sense that he was so hungry for something he'd been consuming all weekend, but he simply couldn't get enough of her. He could hear her moaning his name and he could only respond by squeezing her backside harder.

"Rick," she kept whimpering, the divine torture of him inside her leaving her otherwise wordless and breathless. As she rocked them back and forth, his cock stroking her clit, she felt like she was going to explode.

"Hurry," Rick groaned huskily, also on the verge of an eruption. His tongue moved to her neck, inhaling her salty skin as she writhed and rolled her hips like magic. Before he knew it, she was kissing him, suffocating him with her perfect plump lips, her rhythm slowing as their tongues locked, but never ceasing. She tasted like him and him like her, their bodies stuck together with sweat and moving in harmony, and it was erotic and soul-stirring and exciting and familiar all at once. Without thinking, because his mind had turned to a haze of pure euphoria, he let himself go, filling Michonne with his seed before either of them knew it. "Shit," he whispered, pulling out of their kiss.

Michonne knew very well what it meant, but was too enraptured to care, continuing to suck at his neck while she rode to her own climax. "Just give me a few more seconds," she breathed against his throat. She was so close she could taste it. Between his cum and hers, she was literally dripping wet, and when her orgasm hit, it did so like a train, intense and unyielding. "Shit," she moaned. "Shit, shit, shit." She grabbed at anything she could to mitigate the unbearable pleasure, her fingers managing to find her favorite place – Rick's hair – as she came back down. Her mouth hung ajar as she slowly began to regain sensation in the lower half of her body, and she felt Rick sweetly rubbing her back and backside. He had a tired but contented smile on his reddened face, which made her chuckle to herself. "God," she sighed, straining to pull herself up.

"Let's just do this forever," he grunted, still holding onto her.

"Hold that thought," she smirked. She ran her hand over his sweat-dampened stomach before dismounting him and heading for the bathroom. She moved briskly, as semen was streaming down her thighs, and made quick work of peeing and cleaning herself up. She wished she'd had the foresight to get a birth control prescription while she'd been in Atlanta the last two months, but she hadn't exactly intended on having sex anytime soon. So it was on to Plan B. Literally.

She stepped out of the bathroom and went to her overnight bag sitting on the couch, knowing Rick was watching her every move, and likely questioning them too. She pulled a Target bag from the side pocket and went to the bed to show him the contents – she didn't want to have any more secrets with him. She hoped he could see that. "I'm gonna take it," she told him.

He looked at the Morning After pill packaging, with its single tablet inside, and then up at her, mildly surprised – mostly at the fact that she was revealing it him. Not only was he unused to this level of openness, but as far as he was concerned, she didn't need to share any part of this with him – not if she didn't want to. She had the right to do whatever she wanted with her body. "Is this gonna make you sick?" he asked, concerned.

"It might," she granted with a timid shrug. "I've never used it before, so I don't know how my body will react."

"Shit," he sighed. He wished he'd been more careful. Especially after what she'd revealed to him. It made sense why she had always been so wary of any form of unprotected sex. Why she didn't want to even think about a pregnancy scare. So many things made sense now. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Stop apologizing," Michonne whispered, leaning in to give him another kiss. She bought the pill on her way there, knowing there was a possibility she'd need to use it. But she preferred sex without a condom, and she was done being scared of it. "Sometimes pleasure is worth a little pain."

"You're the only one who has to deal with the pain, though."

"The price and the privilege of being a woman," she said. "Don't move," she instructed. She went to the kitchen to take her pill with water and soon returned with the remainder of their strawberries from the day before.

As she came back to bed, straddling Rick much in the same way she just had, he wrapped his arms around her waist and gazed up at her, awed and intrigued and in love. He really did want to do this forever. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

Michonne smiled. She loved the way he would ask that, as if anyone would ever say no to that face. "Of course," she said. She brushed his hair back from his forehead so she could see all of him.

"Please tell me if you're not ready to talk about this," he started seriously. "But I wondered if you've thought about… what it would be like to have another baby at some point. Down the line? Or... is it more like you can't imagine reopening that wound?"

Her smile gradually fell when she realized he was trying to plan for a future. Here she was just trying to bask in the moment. "I've talked about it with my therapist," she nodded honestly. "I think I would. Not today, obviously, but... down the line. In another few years, perhaps."

Rick nodded as he rubbed her thigh. "I'd love to have a baby with you," he admitted, also wanting to be honest. "But I don't need it."

"Rick," she smiled awkwardly, a sigh escaping with it.

"We don't have to talk about it anymore," he said, detecting her discomfort. "I just don't want you to feel pressured, but I also don't want you to feel like I'm avoiding the topic. I wanna do whatever you wanna do."

Michonne swallowed hard, at a loss for words, even as she knew this moment would come. That she couldn't spend an entire weekend in his presence, doing nothing but opening her heart – and her legs – to him and expect to go back to normal. Whatever normal meant at this point, anyway. She'd fallen in love with him again, which was a pretty big feat when she'd never fallen out of it. It was the danger of coming to see him in the first place. She saw it coming when she agreed to it. But all good things had to come to an end. Right? That was what she'd learned in the past year.

She took that opportunity to roll off of him and onto the bed, feeling like she'd be more comfortable beside him now. The sexiness of the moment had faded, the room turning serious. She laid on her side, facing him; Rick did the same and pulled up the sheets so their bodies were covered again.

He wanted to ask what was bothering her, but he felt like he'd spent most of the weekend doing that. Worried about saying the wrong things, or not noticing the right ones. So he opted for a quiet and plain declaration. "I'm gonna miss you," he said.

Michonne smiled.

"Can we do it again next weekend?" he hoped.

She exhaled again. "I don't think that's the best idea," she said. She closed her eyes, not wanting to register the inevitable disappointment in his eyes.

Rick only stared at her, as if he could find a different response if he looked long and hard enough. "Because of him?" he asked.

"In part," she confessed, opening her eyes again, only to see a sea of blue gazing back at her. "But mostly because of me," she said. "I think I just need to be by myself."

"I see…"

"I know that sounds odd after the weekend we just had, but… I wanted to see you." She said it simply, even as she knew that this was anything but simple. "I wanted to be with you. One more time."

Rick lifted his head from his pillow, his eyebrows furrowed as he realized what was happening. One more time? "So this was what?" he asked. "A goodbye fuck?"

"No," she whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder, wanting him to lie back down. "I don't know," she reconsidered.

"You don't know," he repeated.

"Rick." She said his name evenly, hoping her composedness would bring him back to her; that he wouldn't let his emotions turn this into an argument.

His eyes flitted back to her. The toneless way she said his name, devoid of all the life and love that existed all weekend, it deflated him. He laid back down, but avoided Michonne's face, keeping his eyes on her hands instead as he waited for her to speak.

"I don't know that we can just pick up where we left off," she said softly. Gently.

"I thought we already had," he smirked.

She reached up to touch him, cupping his face before running her hand through his curls. "This was good," she nodded, evidenced by the fact that she was lying with him naked now. "But I don't think I'm ready to be in a relationship, Rick. I think the problem between us is I never was."

"I see…"

"That's not to say I didn't love… whatever we were. I did. We had fun-"

"Please don't reduce us to just 'having fun'," he said solemnly. "It was more than that."

"It was," she agreed, realizing how it must have sounded. "I guess I mean to say that it was good when it was good," she offered instead. "But when you disappeared, it all sort of crystallized for me. How I did things I wasn't ready to do because I was scared of losing you. And then I lost you anyway." She smiled ruefully to herself, her face turned warm with Rick just staring at her, those eyes begging for her to say something different. "It forced me to see that I can't keep revolving my life around someone else. Not Negan, not Anthony… not even you. I have to be okay with just me," she said. "And I don't know that I'm there yet."

"But you didn't revolve your life around me," he tried to remind her. "You had a job and you loved it. You were getting used to it. This place. You and Carl…" He trailed off when he remembered how he'd been so adamant about her meeting Carl while she was processing the loss of her own son. And she went along with it because he'd been such an asshole about it. It wasn't fair then, and it certainly wouldn't be now; to push her any more than he already had. So he relented. "Okay," he nodded, closing his eyes. He wished he had more. He wished there was some set of words that could magically undo all the bad parts of their relationship. Some way to rewind two months to when she tried to apologize. He would've accepted without hesitation if he knew  _any_  of the things he knew now.

But alas, here she was, very pointedly expressing what she needed for her own well-being. He couldn't argue with that. In fact, he would be proud if it weren't so painful. Hell, he  _was_ proud of her. She'd always been more self-aware than she ever gave herself credit for. Maybe if he'd been too, they wouldn't be here now. He was always so scared it was Negan in the way. Because Lori was still in his. The way she took pieces of him – his patience; his willingness to be vulnerable; his confidence in himself – and perhaps even worse, in other people. Until he was unrecognizable. He wanted to believe Negan had done the same to her, and there could be some way around that. That they could work through it together once she was finally honest with him. But instead, he was left with this very straightforward, sobering conclusion – she didn't need him.

"So what happens now?" Rick wondered. "Do we just… go our separate ways?"

"If you're willing to try it," she said, "maybe we can be friends?" A tear slipped out of her right eye at the thought of never seeing him again. It wasn't what she wanted, but she would understand if it was what he needed.

He hated that word. Friends. It was what he and Lori tried to be after their breakup. And, well, they had to be, because of Carl. But it was often awkward and strained, even when they were getting along well. He didn't want that with Michonne. After the weekend they'd just had, he was trying to figure out forever. Not friendship. "Yeah," he nodded back. "We can try it." Because he'd rather be friends than nothing. He reached out to wipe away the tear that had fallen across her nose and he smiled sullenly. His hand trailed down to her lip, his thumb tracing across it as he tried to remember their last kiss. He wished he'd known it would be their last kiss.

"I mean it," she whispered. "I don't wanna say we'll be friends and then we disappear from each other's lives the second the coast is clear."

Rick sighed, though his eyes never left hers. "How about… friends with benefits."

Michonne laughed, and so did he. That twinkle in his eyes threatening to pull her back under. But she was glad he was joking with her – she hoped it meant he really did understand. Of course, she wasn't even sure that she fully comprehended it all herself. Because who finds a unicorn and willingly lets it go? But then, there was a calm that washed over her now that they'd had the conversation. It had been weighing on her all weekend, unsure whether she should do it, unsure how he would take it. She considered waiting for Dr. Garvey's assessment of the situation, because maybe this was totally wrong. But in the end, this – like her decision with Sasha – just felt right. She wanted to focus on herself – without the burden of constant grief or the distraction of a charming neighbor. Even if she had fallen in love with that neighbor. It was time for her to figure out how to be happy.

* * *

Lyrics: "Tennessee Whiskey" - Chris Stapleton (Traveller)


	17. I Want to Go Home

"So Negan, what's it been like for you this past year? What does a typical day look like?"

Negan chuckled awkwardly, wringing his hands in his lap as he tried not to collapse under the weight of the stares from Michonne and her doctor. He'd always been an advocate for therapy, and in the half decade he'd been going, thought he was used to it; but this joint session was a different ballgame for him. The safety net of confidentiality felt nonexistent in the moment. Michonne sitting beside him, stoic as hell, he couldn't even read the room. "Well, Doc, I don't know that I've had a typical day in the past year," he said. He hoped his smile hid the pain behind that answer. "I mean, right after it happened, my days were mostly focused on Michonne. You know, trying to make sure she ate, took baths every now and then, just tried my best to keep her alive. At a certain point, I was just happy to see her come out of the bedroom every day, even if it was just to watch TV. So we did that for the first couple of months," he explained, his voice atypically quiet as he spoke. "Then, I went back to work, and I'd make her breakfast before leaving. Call a few times just to check in. Come home, cook dinner, and we'd watch TV. Same shit all summer, until… you know."

"Until Michonne left?" Dr. Garvey asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you not like to say it out loud?"

"No," he shook his head, looking over to Michonne. "No, I'm fine with it. I just didn't wanna offend her."

"You can say what it was," Michonne smiled weakly. "I'm fine with it, too."

"Well, all right," Negan conceded. "Until Michonne left."

"And then what was it like?" Dr. Garvey encouraged gently.

"Well after that, I didn't know what the hell to do. For the first couple of days, I wanted to believe she'd been taken, even though I'd talked with her parents. I knew where she was. Knew she was fine." He let that linger in the air as he considered just how much he'd been in denial. "It was just easier to think she'd only do something like that by force, I guess."

Michonne briefly dropped her stare, the guilt of what she'd done still lingering in small ways. Her stomach had been hurting all day. All week, really, she'd vacillated between cramps and nausea, chalking it up to the contraceptive she took; but today, anticipating this session, her ailment only amplified.

She knew he wouldn't say anything cruel, not on purpose, but facing it all in front of him was such a tall order. Processing his feelings when she was still learning to dissect her own. God. She wanted to be free from this relationship once and for all, but after the way she left things, she knew it was going to be a rocky road out of there.

"So Michonne is gone, no communication between you," Dr. Garvey said, recounting their tragic story. "You have no idea whether she'll return. How are you handling things at that point?"

"I dunno," he sighed. "I just felt… fuckin' lost."

"Negan," Michonne quietly interrupted, reprimanding him for his language.

"It's fine," Dr. Garvey chuckled. "Express yourself the way you need to."

"She hates when I curse in front of people we don't know."

Michonne pursed her lips, recalling the embarrassment she felt when he lost his mind during her labor. It wasn't like she had anything against cursing – she did it herself, after all – but the manner in which he did, the sheer frequency, it made her cringe sometimes. Mostly because it did bring her back to that terrible day. "Just try to tone it down for my doctor?" she asked.

"Fine," he said before correcting himself. "I was lost without her. It was hard. I was hurt. It was everything I could do just to get to work every morning."

"And did you?"

"For the most part," Negan nodded. "After my mom had her stroke, I had to take another leave of absence," he said. "But hell, I had to make a living, so I didn't have the option to be depressed, really."

"So would you say you managed to cope without her?" Dr. Garvey submitted.

"I guess I did. Yeah."

She began to write a long sentence in her notes before continuing her line of questioning. "Do you feel you've had a chance to process any of what's happened to you? Your son, your mother. Michonne?"

"I'd talked about Anthony a lot with my therapist," he nodded again. "What it was gonna mean to be a father... My dad was a piece of shit, so I was ready to be better. I couldn't  _wait_  to be a dad." He smiled sadly as he looked over to Michonne, unable to read her expression. He sighed. "So when that was snatched away from us… I mean, I know I didn't have the same connection to him as she did," he said, pointing to Michonne. "A mother carrying a child, I can't even imagine. But I definitely mourned the loss of that potential relationship I'd have with my kid. I wrote to him for a few months," he revealed, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought about all the things he'd said that his son would never hear. "I'm a terrible fuckin' writer, but I wrote to him like he was real. Put my hopes for his future into words."

"You did?" Michonne inserted, surprised. She'd been waiting for him to admit that he hadn't been to his therapist since Lucille's stroke, but she hadn't expected this. In all her sorrow, she never really stopped to question how he was handling his.

"Yeah," he confirmed, shrugging innocently.

Dr. Garvey observed the exchange with a quiet smile, waiting to make sure they were done before speaking again. "Negan, why didn't you share this with Michonne?"

"I didn't feel like I could grieve with her," he said easily. "I thought she needed space and I didn't wanna crowd her with my shit."

Michonne frowned. "It wasn't just  _your_  shit," she told him. "It was something we went through together."

"It was, yeah. But after everything you went through carrying him, having to deliver him on your own... it was so much more for you."

"I wish you'd told me," she shook her head.

"What would it have changed?" Negan said. "You were damn near catatonic at the time. It seemed like you needed time to just… sit with it."

"I don't know if it would've changed anything," Michonne admitted. "But that's the kind of thing you share with someone you lost a child with. Someone you're going to marry," she said, wiping frustratedly at a tear that slipped down her left eye. "Maybe… maybe I wouldn't have felt so useless and so out of place if I'd known you were trying to work your way through it, too."

"So you wouldn't have left?" he asked.

"I don't know," she shook her head. "I don't know that I wouldn't have, but maybe not."

He nodded back, but he was at a loss for how to respond to that. He wasn't particularly interested in taking the blame for what she'd done.

Dr. Garvey could see the chasm between them growing as they spoke, so she stepped in with another question. "Negan, what would you say the communication was like for you two before Anthony?"

"It was good," he answered confidently. "We were good. For three years or so, we were solid as hell."

"Michonne, do you agree with that?"

She sighed, knowing her answer would make her sound like the bad guy. But there was no point in having this session if they were just going to sit there and lie to each other. "No," she said quietly; avoiding his indubitable stare. "I hid things from him, and he did the same with me. And maybe it's… normal for couples to have secrets, but it felt, for me, at least… like something was lacking."

"What did I keep from you?" he demanded, his gaze indeed fixed on her.

"How many times did you 'forget' to take your meds and never say anything?" she said. "And I had to find out because you wouldn't eat. Or because of some virulent outburst? At your worst, you wouldn't even touch me." Her brows furrowed again, thinking of all the times she felt rejected by him and didn't know why. "And I wouldn't know whether it was really you, or if it was because you were off that day."

"Fair enough," Negan granted. He rarely actually recognized what he was doing at the time – not until it was too late – but he understood that that didn't excuse it. "I didn't know it came across that way."

"I suspected as much," she nodded back. "I don't expect you to know, because I never really said it, but your depression… it took its toll on me."

"That why you squirreled away your money every two weeks?" he shot back. No point now in pretending he didn't know. "You needed a nest egg in case I got to be too much?"

Michonne smirked at him acting like he'd caught her in some kind of lie. She was the one who brought this up in the first place. "Yes," she said evenly. "And I didn't communicate with you. I didn't trust you. And it seems like you didn't trust me enough to bring it up either."

"I didn't wanna run you off," Negan said, laughing at the irony. He looked at Michonne's counselor, who was scribbling away, recording all their dysfunction, and he was curious what she thought of this shit show. If he could see her notes, what would they say? "Maybe we weren't so solid after all," he acknowledged.

"That's not surprising to you, though," Dr. Garvey confirmed. "If you knew Michonne was hiding money."

"No," he agreed. "Pretending I didn't know was just easier."

"With that in mind," she started, "where do you feel your relationship is now?"

"It's… shit, I dunno. We're moving slow," he sighed. He stared at his hands as he spoke, thinking about how he was supposed to have a ring on his finger by now. "Given what we've been through, you know, seeing how Michonne has come back to life, it's kind of amazing. She's up every morning, we usually have breakfast and dinner together. Sometimes we don't say anything – we just sit there together and it's awkward as hell," he confessed. "I miss the stories about her work day. I do. But we talk about politics, current events and shit. It's not who we were, but it's sure as hell better than where we were a year ago."

Dr. Garvey nodded as she jotted down a few more notes. "And what about the sex?" she asked both of them. "Is that better, worse? About the same?"

"We haven't had sex," Michonne answered quickly. "Not since before Anthony."

"More than a year now," Negan added, nodding. "I don't think we're ready for that yet."

Michonne looked down guiltily, as it had barely been a week for her. Which, in the end, only added to the frustration of the situation, and Negan's unwillingness to accept that their relationship was over. "For me, it feels like the gap between us just keeps widening," she said. "I have to come up with things to say to him. We don't sleep in the same bed. We're like roommates." She let out her own sigh as she turned to him. "I appreciate you," she said. "You were there for me when I needed it most. When I deserved it the least, probably. But I'm worried that it's made you think we can be anything other than friends."

"We  _are_  more than friends, Michonne."

"We were," she nodded. "But we went through this thing and it changed us. Irrevocably. It made me do something I never would've done otherwise, and that's walking away from you the way I did." She felt tears spring to her eyes again and she looked up in hopes of keeping them from falling. She couldn't afford to let her emotions get in the way of saying this once and for all. "I don't think the guilt of that will ever really go away, but I cannot let it dictate my life."

"Michonne, say more about that," Dr. Garvey urged her. It was something she'd been trying to get her to come to terms with just a few weeks before, so it was promising to hear her say it now.

"Well," she exhaled again. God, she hated this. "I think Negan is... perhaps taking advantage of that guilt, maybe not even purposely, by pretending that we're still in a relationship. Speaking in terms of 'we', when I always say 'I'. Texting me about my whereabouts. Buying things for me," she described. "The lines feel blurred and I think it's time for me to go," she nodded slowly. "I just don't want him to think I'm abandoning him."

"Negan, do you hear what Michonne is saying?"

"I do," he said, that awkward chuckle filling the room again. "I just - I think the big issue between us is that she's speaking from grief still. She sees me and can only see what we lost, and I just don't know how to detach myself from that. So she can just see me again."

"But can you see me?" Michonne asked before her therapist could respond. "I say these things and it goes in one ear and out the other. Like you're refusing to accept that I don't love you that way anymore."

"You think you don't love me because of what happened."

"I don't love you because I don't love you!" she nearly yelled. She had to take another deep breath to pull herself back together. "I still have trouble figuring out what it was with us." She sniffled as she was unable to hold back those tears. "I thought it was love, but maybe we were just good friends in the end. Because I like you. I  _have_  love for you. But I met someone else, and it didn't feel anything like it did with you," she said. "It wasn't supposed to, I know. Because you're different in nearly every way. But with him, I felt… this jolt, like being struck by lightning. 'Oh. This is what being in love feels like.'

And maybe it's just the shine of someone new, and my best days with you feel so far away now," she admitted. "I haven't properly unpacked it all yet. But I know how good it felt to be with him, even when I thought I didn't want to be with anyone. We didn't have awkward silence – we knew how to be still together. He taught me how to field dress a deer," she chuckled through her tears and wiped her running nose. "And he often made me forget about all these scars. He has a son," she said. "And this cabin tucked away from the world, and I spent last weekend there, being reminded of why I left here. And how it  _aches_  to be away from him. I never once felt that with you. That ache." She shook her head, her mind wandering to Rick, realizing she would probably be feeling that particular pain for a while. "And I don't say that to be cruel," she went on, "but to be honest. I  _need_  you to know how serious I am. Because you have to let me go. You can't do this to me again. You can't treat me like I'm crazy because I want out," she said – she begged. Her plea full of messy tears. "I  _need_  you to let me go."

"Michonne," Dr. Garvey cut in calmly. She gave her a moment – to breathe, to swallow her feelings, to wipe her tears. She eyed Negan, his furrowed eyebrows leaving her to wonder what he was thinking. Couldn't tell whether it was confusion or anger, but given the things Michonne had shared with her, she was leaning toward the latter. So keeping them both levelheaded was paramount for her. "You okay?" she asked her patient first.

Michonne nodded as she grabbed tissues from between her and him. "Yeah," she promised, looking down. "I just needed to get that out, I guess."

She nodded back before directing her attention to Negan. "How are you?"

"Not great, Doc," he answered pointedly. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes before covering them with his hand. "How am I supposed to be after that?" Negan mumbled. He let his words hang in the air, knowing the two women in the room were likely staring at him, worried he was going to burst. That was always how Michonne looked at him, he was realizing.  _Worried he was going to burst_. This wasn't a relationship for her – he was a chore. "You know, you build this life," he started, his hands still covering half his face, "and you think the person you're sharing it with has the same goals and hopes and dreams as you do. Never actually understanding that they don't even fucking like you."

"Negan-," Michonne started.

"Let him finish," Dr. Garvey stopped her.

"I mean, I know shit was hard. I put a lot on her plate right at the start," he acknowledged quietly. "But I guess I thought all this time, if she could stick with me through that? We could get through any fuckin' thing. And I don't know how I got it so goddamn wrong."

Michonne rolled her eyes at his attempt to play victim here. She always tried to be soft, allowing that he'd been through a hell of a lot. But at this point, so had she, and she wasn't going to just take it anymore. "Maybe it's because you don't listen to me," she said.

Dr. Garvey gave her patient a knowing look. "Before this devolves into an argument, I want to step in here," she said. "Because there's a lot being said that we need to consider." She leaned toward Negan, whose face was still covered, and she hoped that if she addressed him directly, he'd come back to the room with them. "Negan," she called gently. She watched him slowly return his glasses to his face, his flushed face slowly returning to its normal color.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"This is rough," she acknowledged, "but we're getting somewhere."

"I know," he sighed.

"So I want to ask you. Maybe this will help you see things from Michonne's perspective – knowing what you put on her at the beginning of your relationship, can you see how she might just be emotionally spent at this point?" She gazed at him, waiting for recognition to take hold. "It may not be that she doesn't like you. In fact, I think she's saying quite the opposite. But your relationship was built on shaky ground. I think you've both conceded that. So if you take and take and take, and she gives and gives and gives, doesn't it make sense that she ran out of space? Before the pregnancy and marriage proposal, she was your girlfriend, your mother, your nurse. That's a  _lot_ ," she noted.

"It is," Negan agreed.

Michonne closed her eyes as she listened, appreciating the validation; someone saying what she'd done, her actions and reactions, made sense in some small way.

"And Michonne, you can't blame Negan for feeling a little blindsided here, when you let the relationship go on the way it did, for as long as it did. How was he supposed to know you were suffering?"

"He wasn't," she shook her head. "I didn't really know it myself until I broke," she said. "But here we are now, and I just want him to hear me, and it feels like he doesn't."

"Give him some time," Dr. Garvey encouraged. "You've dropped a lot on him here. Things you've been thinking about for nearly a year now. He deserves more than three minutes."

Michonne turned her head to Negan, his expression telling her he had something he wanted to say. "What is it," she said.

He looked at her, his hazel eyes studying her face for the truth. "Were you ever gonna marry me?"

"I think so," she whispered, looking down at the floor then. "If we had Anthony. And I was happy. I think I would've."

"Happy." He scoffed at the mention of the word. "I thought we were that. But I remember telling my therapist about how I thought she was too good for me," he said to no one in particular, as he looked past Dr. Garvey and at the bookcase behind her instead. He chuckled to himself. "Always knew I was punching way above my weight. For so long, I dreaded the day you realized it, too. Feels like I've been trying to fuckin' outrun that day... stay a few steps ahead, try to anticipate your wants and needs. So maybe that day would never come." Negan laughed again as he heard himself. How pitiful it all sounded out loud. "So. Shit, I dunno, I guess I did stop listening. I was always so fucking scared of what you were gonna say."

Michonne nodded knowingly. She had several examples of exactly that. But then, for so long, she thought she was happy, too. Until she met Rick. Until she did a little digging, looking at their relationship under microscope of therapy and seeing just how unfulfilled she was. A nice guy with a good job and a handsome face doesn't make for a great relationship. She wished it hadn't taken losing her son to come to that conclusion.

"Michonne," Dr. Garvey called out to her; she could see her lost in thought. She took a glance at her notes before asking, "What did you mean when you said to Negan, 'You can't do this to me  _again_ '?"

* * *

**_One_   _year ago_.**

_"Where is our fucking doctor? That's all I wanna know."_

_"Sir, she is on her way." The lead nurse's name was Vicki, an older white woman with a pronounced twang, and she was quickly losing patience with this man going berserk in her ward. "Please calm down," she asked._

_Michonne didn't have the wherewithal to intervene. At the moment, she was being stripped out of her clothes – the peach dress covered in vomit and blood – and transferred into a hospital gown. She could've helped, tried to bring him back down to earth with her. In the back of her mind, she knew Negan was acting out because it had been a rough week. A rough couple of months, really. The end of one year and beginning of a new one was always difficult, but especially for him with the anniversary of his father's death. He'd gotten a new prescription recently and he'd yet to adjust. And she didn't have the space to take care of him the way she used to, not when she had to take care of herself and their growing son. She could see the little changes in her fiancé – his appetite, his patience slowly thinning, he wasn't sleeping well. He'd taken an Ambien that night because he was so desperate for a good night's rest. And suddenly, here they were in the most stressful situation possible. So as much as she understood why he was in this hospital acting a damn fool, there was nothing inside her that was compelled to actually speak up. She was too scared for her baby, too annoyed for herself, to care about saving him right now. The younger nurse, Priti, had already warned Negan that he couldn't stay if he was going to act like this. Michonne wasn't sure that wasn't the better option._

_"There's no goddamn traffic at three o'clock in the morning," Negan continued to shout. "Where is she?"_

_"Sir, if you don't stop yelling, I'm going to have to call security," Vicki said._

_"You're gonna call security on me?" he repeated her, his ire seeming to grow with every word. "My fiancée is losing blood by the second and our doctor is nowhere to fucking be found, but you're worried about calling security on me? Why don't you fucking call Dr. Prescott?"_

_Vicki reluctantly stepped away from her patient in order to address the father in a quieter, calmer fashion, hoping he would follow her lead. "I need you to calm down for her sake," she said, pointing back to Michonne. "She's in pain, her blood pressure is high, she's terrified right now. She's gonna need you, but I'm not letting you stay around her like this."_

_"I understand," he replied quietly, nodding back. He looked at Michonne, being hooked up to machines by one nurse, and using another for support as a contraction, or something like it, pierced through her body, knowing it should've been him holding her hand. "I'll settle down," he promised. "I'd just like to get an update on where our doctor is."_

_"Dr. Prescott should be here any minute," she promised. Just then, Michonne let out a wail that tore through the room, and Vicki rushed back to her side._

_"It hurts," she cried to anyone who would listen. Michonne always thought she had a fairly high threshold for pain, as she'd sprained and broken plenty of bones and ligaments in her time as an athlete. And pregnancy hadn't been a cakewalk itself – the nausea, the cramping, the heartburn. She'd been at risk for hypertension for the first time in her life. But this pain was unlike anything she'd experienced. It felt like a sword was being driven through her spine. From all the horror stories she'd heard from family and friends, she knew labor would be difficult, some contractions excruciating, but this was pure torture._

_"Michonne," Negan called out to her, worried, as he settled at the foot of her bed. He watched in concern as the physiological monitor read her vitals and the ultrasound took a look inside her. He noted the unsettled looks the nurses exchanged before two of them immediately shuffled out of the room. His heart began to race as he gazed at the screens and tried to decipher them for himself. "What is it?" he asked the remaining nurse, Mike. Michonne began to cry out in pain again, her teeth gritted as another contraction seized her. Negan closed his eyes, the sound of her agony making him ache. "What's happening?" he asked again. Louder and more urgently this time._

_"You should wait for the doctor," Mike replied quietly._

_"Where's the heartbeat?" Negan asked, pointing to the screen containing the ultrasound images. He knew from previous appointments where it should've been, but only a flat line showed. At that point, he just wanted someone to answer him about something._

_"Shouldn't we be able to see it?" Michonne spoke finally. Faintly. The panic in her voice apparent._

_"Yes," Mike admitted with a quiet nod. "We're gonna get a doctor in here for you as soon as we can."_

_"Isn't there some rule about the doctor having to live within thirty minutes of the hospital?" Negan said._

_Michonne knew it had only been about twenty minutes since she'd called Dr. Prescott, so Negan making such a fuss over her not being there yet was driving her insane. "Please stop," she managed to say through her pain. Her eyes squeezed shut as another contraction did its worst._

_Negan went to her side to take her hand. "Just keep breathing, baby," he said encouragingly. "You got this."_

_It didn't feel like she had anything at all. In fact, she felt like she was going to die, but lacked the strength to argue with him. She was more interested in knowing why her baby's heartbeat had disappeared; why the other two nurses had rushed out of there so suddenly; why what felt like normal cramps a few hours ago had abruptly turned to this searing pain. Something was very wrong. As she sat there trying to remember the last time she felt her son move, the nurses returned with a tall, blond white man toting a cup of coffee and a clipboard and Michonne knew he was taking over until Dr. Jacqui could get there._

_"Good evening," he greeted the couple, attempting to feign liveliness. He handed his coffee to Vicki and offered the patient a gentle handshake. "I'm Dr. Jenner," he said, then offering his hand to Negan. "Dr. Prescott is just a few minutes away, but we didn't want to waste any time here," he explained. "Is it all right with you if I do a quick examination?"_

_Michonne nodded immediately, but Negan wasn't so keen on the idea of some stranger walking in and taking over. It was precisely what he said he didn't want when they arrived. "We really can't wait for our own doctor?" he asked, trying to keep his cool in the process._

_"This is an emergency," Dr. Jenner answered evenly._

_Negan replied with a tense sigh, but nodded for him to proceed. He watched with bated breath as this strange doctor pressed on his girlfriend's swollen belly, leaving her whimpering in discomfort. They positioned her feet in stirrups, much to her obvious chagrin, and checked for dilation. Michonne looked so uncomfortable, and his own anxiety seemed to be multiplying with every passing second._

_"Okay, so here's what we're looking at," Dr. Jenner started, bringing the ultrasound images into Michonne's view. He pointed to what appeared as a garbled mass on the screen and looked his patient in the eye as he spoke. "This is a placental abruption," he stated matter-of-factly. "It means your placenta has detached from the inner wall of your uterus, and your baby hasn't been getting any oxygen."_

_Michonne stared at this doctor, this stranger, not understanding a single word that was coming out of his mouth. It felt like she'd suddenly been thrust into a dream. A nightmare. One of those hyperrealistic hallucinations, where the events felt plausible enough, but didn't make sense for her life. Like that time she dreamed about standing next to Michelle Obama at a Beyoncé concert and then having dinner with them both backstage. It just couldn't be happening._

_"What the fuck?" she could hazily hear Negan yell. A parade of expletives followed, and Dr. Jenner was forced to confront him, just as some woman she didn't know, wearing a cardigan and dress pants, entered the chaotic room. Michonne thought surely she was going insane. This couldn't be her baby's delivery._

_But it was. The nightmare persisted, and Michonne felt like she was watching it from underwater, drowning, helpless to stop it. People said words that she could hear, but didn't quite comprehend. The woman in the cardigan was a grief counselor. Dr. Jacqui came in, along with another nurse from her regular practice. Meanwhile, Negan had been forced to leave for his inability to control his anger. Michonne watched, blankly, as he was escorted out by two fully grown men like he was some wild animal. She was too far gone to be upset or embarrassed or feel sorry for him. Even when he looked her in the eye, seemingly begging for her to vouch for him. Because she always vouched for him when he needed it – when he overstepped, when he was overwhelmed. But she couldn't now, even if she wanted to, too paralyzed by her own trauma._

_The delivery was an absolute blur. A nurse held her hand while Dr. Jacqui supported her. Michonne cried from start to finish, not because of the physical pain, which was blinding at some points, but because she could feel her heart breaking as she pushed her dying son out of her body. She screamed with agony and with terror and with pure rage as the last eight months of her life, all the happiness and anticipation, culminated in nothing but heartache._

_The most haunting part of it all was the silence when he was finally delivered. There were no cries. None of the flailing limbs she'd come to expect. They might as well have sealed off the room as Anthony's grave. The doctor tried to resuscitate him, but too many of his organs had been damaged. She heard them say that before they even got started. She noticed the nurses scurrying around the room as if they could help. Like her baby wasn't dead on arrival. Fucking idiots. All of them._

_She hated how unkind her thoughts were. They'd all been so nice to her and she could barely acknowledge them as people. Just these blobs in pink and blue scrubs. They tried to offer consolation, but she just wanted them to leave. And maybe she'd even said so out loud – she wasn't sure – because Dr. Jacqui told her they would give her some time alone. But not before asking whether she wanted to allow Negan back in. She didn't know what to say to that. She didn't want to see him, or anyone, but it was wrong to keep him away. Even in her stupor, she understood he deserved to see their baby._

_"Okay," she'd mumbled in response – it was as much approval as she was willing to give. It was the only thing she could remember saying in hours and it made no sense because nothing was okay. Absolutely nothing._

_While she waited for Negan, they finally handed her her son to hold, and it only made everything worse. This little human being that she'd failed to protect, he was in her arms now, barely breathing. They gave him an oxygen mask as if it would somehow save him. So she could have a few minutes with someone with a heartbeat, she guessed._

_It was a few minutes before Negan walked into the room, looking like he'd been sedated. Totally different from the asshole that left. She knew she couldn't blame him for it – after five years together, she was used to not knowing who he was going to be that day – but she blamed him anyway. He walked to the bed carefully, as if he might break something on the way; not knowing she was already broken. He sat on the bed beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist._

_"He looks just like you," he quietly commented with a sullen smile._

_Michonne only responded with more tears and handed over their son so Negan could hold him before they took him once and for all. He didn't look like her. He didn't look like anyone really – just… a baby. A head full of dark hair. His pale skin was splotchy, his face pinched. He looked like he'd just been unpacked. Her tears fell faster as she thought about how he couldn't even squeeze her finger. She'd been thinking about this day for so long. How he would look, how his cries would sound to her ears, how his little hand would squeeze her finger like all babies did, and she couldn't wait for that magical feeling. Instead, she was left with this silence. Emptiness. Her body hollow and exhausted, with no baby to show for it. Just her and Negan. Still._

_"They should've taken me instead," she mumbled to herself, though she didn't care if Negan heard her. "The C-section might've saved him," she said._

_"Michonne," Negan whispered, using his free hand to take hers. But she pulled away, and he didn't think it was a good idea to fight her on it. "Baby, it was too late to save him," he said. "The C-section would've only put you at risk, too."_

_"Well at least I could've been with him then," she said, sniffling._

_"You don't mean that, baby," he replied. Instead of taking her hand, he just rubbed his thumb over hers, which she seemed to accept. "You're just tired."_

_She glared at her boyfriend through the haze of her tears. 'Tired' didn't begin to cover it. She was bereft. Heartbroken. Frustrated, sore, groggy, angry, confused, and indeed, tired. But she absolutely meant what she was saying. She wanted to be with her baby boy. Not the corpse in their arms, but wherever he'd go in the afterlife. Her mother was deeply religious, so she grew up believing in heaven, even if only abstractly, and she liked to think Anthony was already there, perhaps paired with a mother who'd died in childbirth. She wanted to be that mother. Not because she was tired, but because it was the only way she could see him. It was_ all _she wanted._

_"You should lie down," Negan suggested, resting his hand there over hers. "Why don't you lower the back of your bed so you can get some rest?"_

_Ignoring him, she wiped her face, undoubtedly swollen now from all the crying. Everything hurt. "I don't want to be with you anymore," she said, making sure it was louder than her last declaration._

_"You don't mean that either," he replied._

_Michonne stared at him again, the way he didn't even bother looking up from Anthony. He didn't take her seriously at all. Couldn't fathom that she could want to leave this hell. He was correct that she was tired. Maybe so much so that she was saying things she didn't really mean. But it didn't feel like it. It felt like she was tired of him. Taking care of him. Tiptoeing around his depression. She was tired of this relationship and wanted out._

_"We can try again," Negan said and it seemed like was talking to the baby. Even though they didn't exactly try in the first place, as Anthony was purely a surprise. "In a few years maybe. This doesn't have to be the end."_

_Michonne nodded glumly. "Maybe so," she said. In the back of her mind, she told herself she would never get pregnant again if she could help it. But she didn't have the energy to fight him, so she nodded, if only to get him to leave it alone, and she carefully laid her sore body against her bed. "Give him back," she whispered. She was desperate to hold onto her son until she couldn't anymore._

* * *

"All right," Michonne sighed – a fatigued but wistful one as she gazed upon her emptied side of the closet. "You can take those out to the car," she said, pointing to her boxes full of shoes.

"My car or yours?" Glenn asked. After several hours of packing with Michonne, he'd gotten well acquainted with just how particular she was about such things.

"Mine," she grinned sweetly, appreciating the attention to detail. "If you manage to drive off a mountain, I can't risk my Louboutins getting lost with you."

Glenn sighed back as he lifted one of the boxes into his arms. "These really are bloody shoes," he joked, referencing the famous song.

Just as he left, Jon Snow came scurrying into the closet to join her, stopping at Michonne's feet. She smiled at the dog as it looked up at her curiously. "You ready to take a road trip?" Michonne cooed at her. Though it was hard to believe she was ready for the trip herself. Moving to Tennessee on a permanent basis had been in her plans for a while now – over Christmas, it was all she could think about. But now, without the safety net of Rick, it felt like stepping out on a ledge alone again. She got these butterflies every time she thought about it. Good ones, but nervous ones. This time, it was without all the regret she left with the first time. This time, she was doing it right.

She hoped.

She maneuvered around Jon Snow to pick up one of her boxes full of dresses and made her way out of the bedroom. She heard Negan's voice as she stepped into the hallway and considered turning around before he could notice her. It was a silly thought, and useless to boot – he'd see her no matter what if she wanted to get out of there. Part of her had hoped she'd be done before he got home so she could avoid the awkward goodbye. The more sensible part of her knew that would just be repeating the same unhealthy cycle that started this whole thing.

But the truth was, their therapy session only seemed to make things worse between them. It definitely wasn't something she wanted to do again, and in the two weeks since, their conversations were even fewer and further between. Avoiding each other however they could. With all the pretenses dropped, there wasn't much to say, she supposed. But now, here they were at the end, and she knew she had to say  _something_.

So she stood there in the hallway with her box, Glenn's dog at her side for moral support, and waited for Negan to enter the house. Dressed in a slim-fitting gray suit and a pair of expensive sunglasses sitting on his face, he looked like the first day they met. She smiled weakly at him, some small part of her wishing they could go back there and start all over again. "Hey," she said.

"Thought you two would be gone by now," he greeted her, pulling off his shades as he stepped farther into the house. As it turned out, it was much easier not having to see her leave. She did him a favor by just disappearing the first time. Watching his own relationship crumbling in front of him wasn't his idea of fun.

"We should've been gone two hours ago, but I've been dragging my feet," she nodded. "It's just a couple more boxes."

He looked around the immediate area, noticing she'd taken one of the pictures from the hallway. A photo of them at some concert – Solange, if he recalled correctly – shot by Glenn. It surprised him that she wanted the memory. "Anything I should know about?" he questioned coolly. "Do I still have a coffeemaker?"

"Yeah. I have what I need in Tennessee," Michonne said. "Just wanted the rest of my stuff."

Negan nodded back. "Laura already filed that quit claim deed, so you should be free pretty soon."

"Oh, that was fast," she replied, pleasantly surprised. She briefly sat her box on the floor and pulled her keys from her back pocket. She removed the three that belonged to the house, leaving her only with the fob for her Lexus and a spare she had for Rick's cabin. Her own place had keyless entry – one of its few modern conveniences. She handed over the keys with a solemn gaze and a smile that matched it – one meant to say how sorry she was that things were ending this way. "Thank you," she whispered, and she hoped he knew what she was thanking him for.

As their hands touched for what would probably be the last time, at least for a long time, Negan moved in closer to her. Jon Snow made sure to keep a healthy distance between them, but it was enough. Enough to feel like she wasn't so painfully far away. "I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted," he said, "but I had the time of my life with you, kid."

Michonne smirked at his attempt to turn this into some sort of  _Casablanca_  moment. There was nothing cinematic about their goodbye. Her in her torn jeans and unwashed hair, the two of them practically strangled by the awkwardness of it all. "I don't know what to say," she said.

"I don't either," he admitted with that unwavering sad smile. "I'm scared as hell right now."

"You've been without me this long," she reminded him gently. "There's no reason to be scared."

"Isn't there?" His eyes stayed on hers, waiting for her to feel any of the things he was feeling. But maybe he'd just been deluding himself all this time. Maybe it wasn't real. Five years ago, he'd been so sad, so lost, and when she showed a modicum of compassion toward him, it  _felt_  real. And he fell all the way in. But maybe it was just him. "What the hell are you supposed to do when you get to the end of something you didn't expect to end?"

Michonne nodded understandingly, but she was ready for this conversation – the entire nightmare, the yearlong epic that had become the end of this relationship – to be over. "Can I get a hug goodbye?"

"You sure you want to?" he retorted sarcastically.

"Fair enough," she granted. She wanted to laugh, but couldn't. She was relieved when he did offer his embrace, wrapping his arms around her loosely; so unlike his usual hugs, which were tight, almost suffocating, given his height. It felt good to finally be able to breathe again. "I'll see you later," she said as they separated. It was a genuine hope, but she didn't know if it would come true.

Negan sighed, remembering when she'd say that when she was leaving the house for the day – not forever. But he nodded and agreed. "I'll see you later."

* * *

Four hours later, just in time for dinner, Michonne and Glenn were making their way through the Great Smoky Mountains and up the winding path toward her cabin. She spent most of the ride thinking about just what she was doing – officially leaving her position at the CDC, making Gatlinburg her permanent address. She'd have to do therapy via Skype, but aside from that, she couldn't believe how at peace she was with leaving Atlanta behind.

And that peace only magnified when she reached her old, new neighborhood to find that Rick was in town. She snuck a glimpse of his house as she passed by, because she always snuck a glimpse of his house when she passed by, and her breath nearly caught in her throat when she saw his Silverado sitting outside. There was something so calming about knowing he was close.

Michonne smiled when she made it to her own home to see Carol's Subaru already parked out front, and Spencer pulling a platter of food from the back of his old Mercedes truck. Her new friends. She rolled down her window to quickly greet him as Glenn pulled up behind her. "I hope you have some liquor in that car too," she called out to him.

Spencer grinned at the sight of her – she looked much better than she sounded when they spoke the day before. "Glad you made it home safe," he nodded. "Alcohol's already inside."

"I'll be right in," Michonne winked. She waited for him to reach her walkway before parking her car behind Carol's, and Glenn behind her. She hopped out of her car with a pep to her step, deeply inhaling the cool mountain air, feeling better for it already. Ater the draining few weeks she'd had with Negan, she felt positively replenished by it.

"So this is where you've been, huh?" Glenn asked, him and Jon Snow coming to join her in the middle of the street. He had a feeling they didn't have to worry about traffic up that way. He hadn't seen another car on the road for miles.

"Don't judge the book by its cover," she said, hearing the apathy in his tone.

"I didn't say anything," he defended, looking to the large, looming cabin before them. Luckily the sun was just starting to set, or he honestly would've been wary of heading in.

"Come," she said, ignoring his obvious dubiety. "I wanna introduce you to Carol and Spencer. And then I'm gonna go see if Rick wants to join us."

Glenn stopped in his tracks at the mention of the famous Rick Grimes. "He's  _here_?" he asked.

"His house is just down there," she said, pointing down the hill to their right. "He's rarely here these days, but I saw his car." She was trying to sound cool about it, but she was so excited about the prospect of him finally meeting Glenn. She wished she and Sasha were still friends so he could meet her, too – even if only to prove to her how great he was. But she'd take this, too.

Instead of dwelling on what wasn't, she brought her old friend inside to meet her new friends, and they immediately started on beers and unloading the food, while she made the trek down to Rick's place to invite him over. She could've, and probably should've done it by text, so as not to blindside him and invade his space, but she didn't want to take the chance he'd miss it.

The setting sun made the mountains look like they were glowing from within. She smiled at the lovely sight as she headed down the hill, the sound of the rambling creek reminding her of her very first day there. She followed the bridge, same as she'd done then, until she was at the edge of Rick's yard. She could see herself sitting there in the grass, all crazy and sad, but pacified the second she set foot on his property. She continued toward the driveway, wondering whether he'd spotted her yet – he usually would've, when he was expecting her. But today, she made it up the steps without him noticing. She knocked on the door, and when he answered, he looked like he'd opened his home to a ghost. "Hey," she waved at him, smiling like their last interaction hadn't been their last interaction.

"Hey," he replied hesitantly, feeling like he missed something. "What... are you doing here?"

It wasn't exactly the friendly welcome she'd been hoping for, but at least he was curious. "Well… I'm moving," she said, nervously crossing her arms over her chest. "I have a couple of friends up the hill helping me with my things, and I thought you might like to join," she explained. "Since I noticed your car, I wanted to ask…"

Rick blinked at the request. "You want me to help you move out of your cabin?"

"Move in," she replied quickly. "I'm moving here. Permanently. Officially."

"Oh." He sounded equal parts surprised and impressed. "Wow."

"No pressure, of course," she added. "But we've got dinner. Some kind of… something from Publix. Sandwiches and... chicken, I think," she said, trying to gauge what his expression meant as she spoke. "And liquor."

Rick smirked at her, remembering telling her to get that very thing when they first met. He let out a sigh, his mind going about a mile a minute as he tried to decide whether to accept the offer. It had been only three weeks since they'd seen each other, but with the way things ended, he was loath to reopen that wound already. He wasn't planning to see her anytime soon, in fact. "Yeah," he agreed, likely against his better judgment. "All right."

Michonne smiled warmly at his consent, and together, the two of them headed back toward her home. "How's your week been?" she asked in the interest of small talk as they walked. He moved slow, despite the cool temperature, as if he wanted their time together to last.

"Quiet," he nodded. "Carl's about to go to LA on spring break, so he's been with his mom all week. The house has been silent as a grave."

She understood that sentiment firsthand. "Wow, Los Angeles?" she asked. "That's fancy."

"Aaron's takin' him," Rick shrugged. "Another Disneyland for him to conquer."

The mention of Aaron's name reminded Michonne of how much she'd enjoyed being around him and Ezekiel. She missed them. "I'm excited for him," she said, wrapping herself in her cardigan. "He's really getting around this year."

"I told myself I wanted him to see the world, so I'm just tryin' to keep my own promise," he said.

She smiled, knowing now, better than ever, that when Rick Grimes said something, he meant it. The remainder of the short walk was quiet, the two of them basking in the sunset and simply being together again. It was different, being 'friends' now, but his company felt so familiar to Michonne.

When they entered the house, the remaining three had the food set up in the kitchen, while Queen played on a Bluetooth speaker upstairs. Michonne's home felt lively, vibrant, for the first time, well, ever. Before now, it had only ever seen her and Rick. And they'd undoubtedly had some good times –  _really_  good times – but it was never quite so full of life.

"Guys," Michonne loudly announced her return and they all looked back at her. "I want you to meet my friend Rick."

Carol was the first to retreat from the kitchen with a full plate in her hand and an arch smirk on her face. "I know you," she said, offering him the food. She hadn't seen him in months now, and worried that he and Michonne would be done for good after she started going to therapy. "Good to see you're still around."

Rick looked back at her curiously. The way she always spoke like she was in on some secret about him was confounding. But at least she was consistent. "Thank you," he nodded.

"It's good to finally meet you," Spencer greeted him next with a strong handshake and a kind smile. "I'm Spencer. We work together."

"Oh," Rick replied, almost taken aback by his stature. He didn't really know what to expect when Michonne told him about 'Dr. Monroe,' but it sure as hell wasn't this. "Yeah. It's good to put a face to a name," he said.

Michonne grinned happily as she watched her people interacting. She was most interested in Glenn meeting Rick, intrigued to find out what he'd think of him. So hopeful that they'd like each other. Even Jon Snow had run up to Rick, circling his feet trying to get an idea of who this handsome stranger was. All these new sights and smells in this foreign house and she was only interested in him.

"I've heard a lot about you," Glenn declared as he approached. "It's a relief to know you're actually real."

Rick laughed as they exchanged a quick bro-hug. "Likewise," he nodded. Though that wasn't true – he hadn't heard much about Glenn besides his name and that he'd stuck by her through everything with Sasha. "I appreciate y'all havin' me over," he said, holding up his plate.

"Honestly, we needed the extra hands for all Michonne's shit," Glenn joked.

"Very funny," Michonne said, leading everyone back into the kitchen to finish preparing their food. She was correct about the sandwich platter and fried chicken, along with a garden salad – an odd combination, but one she didn't mind from that particular market. She picked a section of the turkey sub for herself and a couple of wings before going to retrieve the hot sauce.

"Michonne, you might wanna put that chicken in the microwave," Carol warned her. "It's  _very_  cold."

"It's not that cold," Spencer defended as the deliverer of said chicken. "It's not my fault there's nowhere within an hour of here."

"I don't mind cold chicken," Rick commented as he went for the cabinet where he knew Michonne kept the glasses.

"You wanna switch?" she asked, figuring Carol had already heated his.

"Nope," he declined, distributing a glass for each of them before picking off a bit of his chicken. "I like the breast."

"Oh, I wasn't aware," she said coyly, suppressing her smile. When his eyes stayed on her, she had to look away or she'd likely climb over that table and mount him like a horse. He was wearing a dark gray shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows the way she loved. Lord. "So… what are we drinking?" she asked, an attempt to put him out of her mind.

"Wine for me," Carol said, raising her hand.

"I'll have iced tea," Glenn said.

"With bourbon, right?" Spencer suggested, disappointed when Glenn looked like he was going to decline. "It's Friday, dude."

"Um…"

"Yes," Michonne answered for him, but looked at him to confirm it was all right.

"Fine," Glenn agreed. "But when I'm passed out in the corner, don't be mad that I'm not helping."

"Just one drink," she encouraged, patting him on the back. "Rick, what about you?"

"What are you gonna have?" he asked her.

"I think I'm gonna have some whiskey," she said, eyeing the full bottle on the counter behind him. She couldn't help but wonder why he was asking; what game he was playing with her. Whatever it was, she was glad he was engaging with her.

"Then that's what I'll have, too."

The five of them went to prepare their drinks and heat up their chicken and fix their salads before retiring to the living room with their plates. Rick, Michonne, and Glenn shared the couch, while Spencer took one of the large accent chairs adjacent, and Carol sat cross-legged on the floor at the coffee table. Jon Snow laid down beside her.

"We should make a toast," Carol proclaimed. She assumed everyone in the room knew Michonne's situation, but just in case, she would keep things nebulous. "Michonne, we salute you," she said, the five of them raising their glasses. "Resilience isn't about bouncing back, but leaping forward. And I hope I can speak for everyone when I say that we're so very proud to take these first steps with you."

Michonne scrunched up her face in a feeble attempt to hold back her tears, and she chuckled when Glenn began to rub her back. She felt so silly getting so emotional. But it had been such a long road to get here – destroying everything, including herself, to fix what was broken. And learning who she was and who she wanted to be in the process. She never thought she'd feel this good again. "Thank you," she nodded to Carol, her lip quivering as the words came out.

"And here's to you being single for the first time since grad school," Glenn teased. "You're finally free!"

"And I will drink to that," she said as Carol and Spencer laughed. She caught Rick's eye, and she hoped he knew that it wasn't a slight against him, but rather a statement of how much she needed this time for herself.

"Hear, hear," Rick agreed, taking a long sip of his whiskey. Because he was happy for her, truly. She seemed so much better than she was eight months ago. Or three months ago. Even three weeks ago. She was at ease. And he loved seeing that in her. But goddamn if it didn't hurt, if he didn't feel a twinge of sadness, to see her so happy without him.

* * *

The evening pressed on with the fivesome unloading Michonne's many boxes of clothes and shoes and little memories. All her appliances and gadgets – from her KitchenAid mixer to her new TV to her vibrator. She'd spent most of her night upstairs with Carol, getting her closet organized, while the boys made the runs back and forth to the cars and setting things up downstairs. It was a fun, productive night, concluding with one final round of fried chicken before Spencer and Carol took off for the night. Glenn ended up in the corner of the couch, as he'd promised, and Rick and Michonne retired to the rocking chairs that sat on her porch, Jon Snow between them. It had gotten cold out – colder, anyway – but neither of them minded, both more interested in simply having the time alone together. Even if neither of them were willing to actually say as much.

"I like Glenn," Rick announced, apropos of nothing. He looked at Michonne, hoping she'd be glad to hear it, and her expression said as much. "Is he seein' anyone?"

Michonne's eyes narrowed, startled by the question. But then, they'd never really had a conversation about their preferences, so anything was fair game, she guessed. "You're interested?" she asked genuinely.

Rick laughed, his smile going up to his eyes. "No, I just – I have a friend who might be if he is. My old neighbor's daughter," he nodded. "Her name's Maggie."

Michonne nodded back, impressed that it'd crossed Rick's mind. "We'll have to do this again sometime then," she said. "You should host a dinner party."

"Last time I hosted a dinner party, my ex announced she was pregnant to everyone, so I think I'm good on those for a while."

She smiled at his response. She missed hearing this accent every day. The way he pronounced certain words, his soothing lilt, it was like a poem to her. "Well then I guess we'll have to have it here," she said. "If I can help set Glenn up with someone worthy of him, then maybe I'll owe him a little less."

"Hm," he smirked. "I'm glad he was there for you when you needed it."

"You all were," Michonne said, stealing a glimpse of the side of his face. He had his eyes closed as he rocked back and forth, and she wondered if he was going to fall asleep.

"I wish you'd warned me that Spencer was so… attractive," he submitted kiddingly. "I didn't know that's what I was competing with."

Michonne shook her head, chuckling quietly. The scars Lori left on him, they weren't going away. "And still, I only had eyes for you," she quipped.

"' _Had_ ', huh?" he asked. He pushed.

She replied with a simple look – one that asked him not to open up that can of worms.

"I'm tryin' to be happy for you," he said. "I am. All of this seems… it feels healthy for you."

"It does, doesn't it?" she grinned. She looked around at the place she'd call home until further notice. She no longer felt the need to be isolated up there in the woods, but it didn't just feel like an escape plan anymore. She truly liked it there. "I feel so free without the weight of Negan on my back," she sighed. "It's amazing."

Rick smirked, quietly wondering how this guy he'd never met was handling it all. "You gonna be friends with him too?"

"I dunno," she admitted, looking straight ahead, into the woods. "It may be a while, but I'd like to be. We were probably better off as friends from the start." She went quiet as she thought about how they never really had any sexual chemistry; not like her and Rick. She always chalked at least some of it up to Negan's medication, but after being with Rick, she figured out that it was so much more than that. "I don't know what's gonna happen," she went on to say. "I don't think he likes me right now, but I care about him. I always will."

Rick nodded.

"When will you be back here?" she asked.

"Oh, I dunno," he said, rubbing his eyebrow with the knuckle of his thumb. "I've got a lot to do back home. Some orders to complete," he nodded. "Maybe you could come out to Nashville sometime."

"Yeah. Maybe so." She didn't know what else to say, as it didn't exactly sound like an invitation. Just a way to end the conversation. The entire evening had been like that – a series of amiable interactions, but nothing meaningful contained within them; the niceties an exchange for all the things they weren't saying to each other, it seemed. She looked at her friend – her ex, her love – so curious what he was thinking. She could only imagine all the times he'd looked at her and thought the same. "Rick?" she called out to him softly, her voice lacking any sort of confidence.

He turned to her, hearing the vulnerability in it. "Yeah?"

"Are you mad at me?" she asked.

Rick smiled sadly at the question. "No," he said honestly. "I just... miss you." He shook his head. "I miss you even though I'm with you."

She nodded, realizing he felt that ache, too. What she'd tried to explain to Negan. "I'm so glad you were here," she said, forcing herself to swallow back her emotions. "Not just today. But that first day I got here."

He exhaled shakily, unsure he was willing or able to go back down memory lane with her. Not when he wished every day he could go back there and do it all differently. If he'd known any of it. God. "I should probably get on outta here, actually," he declared.

"Really?" she asked. "It's still pretty early."

"Yeah… I'm headin' back to Nashville tonight," he said, standing from his rocking chair. "I was gettin' ready to leave when you got here."

"Oh," she nodded, standing with him. Jon Snow stirred when they did, the rattle of her collar filling the air. "Okay," Michonne said. She knew she had no right to be disappointed, not when she'd asked for this. But she hated it anyway.

They embraced for a long time – too long for two people who were trying to call themselves friends – until Rick's hand fell low on Michonne's hip. He had to stop himself before he went too far, and he left a sweet kiss on her right cheek.

"We'll talk soon," he said before pulling away, and he wanted that to be true. The night had proven that being friends with her wasn't the worst thing in the world. "I'm proud of you."

The heat of his body combined with the deep timbre of his voice left her melting. But she nodded and let him go, her eyes staying on him as he stepped down from her porch and walked off. That gait. "Watch out for bears," she called after him, hoping he'd get the joke. And that the sound of her voice would actually keep the bears away from him.

Rick turned back to her with a smirk on his face. "You, too."

"Let me know you got home safely," she added.

"I will," he promised. "Good night."

She smiled, knowing that unlike most people, he probably would let her know. And with that, she and Jon Snow headed back inside her home, where Glenn had gotten a second wind and was setting up the shelf that sat beneath her television.

"Oh, hey, thanks for your help with this," he greeted her sarcastically, as he'd spent the previous five minutes struggling with the heavy furnishing.

"I'm sorry," she chuckled, making her way to the kitchen to finish off Carol's bottle of wine. "I thought you were asleep in here."

"I told you I just needed a break."

"We can call it a night anyway and come back to it in the morning," Michonne said. "You want some of this?"

"I'm good," he called back, thankful for the reprieve. He set down his screwdriver and turned on the television to make sure it worked correctly just as Michonne came strolling back into the room.

She went to curl up on her couch and as she sat there sipping her Pinot, realized how much having a TV in the room detracted from her lovely fireplace. "Hmm," she uttered, making a face.

"What's wrong?" Glenn asked distractedly.

Michonne shook her head. "Nothing," she said, patting the space next to her before taking another sip of her wine. "Come sit with me."

He went to join his friend while continuing to set up the remote, but he noticed that she seemed contemplative. Much more so than she had been. Before she sat outside with Rick. "What's up?" he wondered. "Did Rick say something to you?"

"No," she promised, laughing; appreciative of his protectiveness.

"You sure?" he pressed, still trying to discern her strange mood. "You're good?"

"I'm good," she said. Good enough, anyway. Certainly compared to a year ago, when she left that hospital thinking her life was ending. Or at least, she'd wished it was. Now? She raised her glass to her friend as she heard Rick's truck taking off in the distance. "I'm just glad for a new beginning."


	18. It's All Wrong, But It's Alright

"So now that she's finally found a house, how much longer until the wicked witch of Middle Tennessee is out of yours?"

Rick chuckled reluctantly as he gave his little brother a brief sidelong glance before returning his focus to the road ahead of them. "You can ease up on her now," he said, the two of them referring to Lori without naming her. "They're movin' the first week of May."

"Thank  _god_." Aaron sighed happily at that simple set of words, and he didn't understand why Rick didn't seem to share the sentiment. "You can't tell me you don't feel a couple hundred pounds lighter."

He laughed again at Aaron's enthusiasm, though he couldn't help but recall Michonne expressing something similar after being done with her ex once and for all. He would never really know that feeling, as he and Lori were forever bound through Carl, but at least he wasn't tethered to her financially anymore. "I dunno about that, but maybe a few thousand bucks heavier," he joked.

Aaron grinned and gave his brother a playful tap, glad to see he had some sense of humor about it. "I know Michonne's gotta be relieved her man is no longer paying for some other woman's house."

Rick bristled, chagrined with mostly himself for never telling his brother that he and Michonne weren't together anymore. And he didn't want to have to do it now, minutes before Carl was about to get in the car. "She's not like that," he commented hoarsely. "But she was happy for me."

"Why did your voice go all low and weird," Aaron noted immediately, staring at the side of his brother's face. His eyes were fixed on the road, but he could still tell they'd dimmed.

He sighed, gripping the wheel a little tighter before speaking. "Michonne and I broke up a few months ago," he said simply.

"But you just got together a few months ago." Aaron sat up a little straighter, his body language demanding an explanation. "What the hell happened?"

"It just didn't work out," Rick shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

"Bullshit," he retorted. "She adored you."

Rick frowned, doubting he could come to that conclusion in the little time they'd spent together. "You met her like twice."

"I don't care. I saw it," Aaron insisted. "And you, her, so what the hell could've happened that was so bad in three months?"

"It's a long story," Rick shook his head. "But she went home for a while. She  _needed_  to go home," he resubmitted. "And when she came back, it was different."

"Hm," Aaron mumbled, disappointed to hear it all. Especially because Rick was so obviously bothered by it, too. He'd been quiet – quieter than his usual thoughtful way; it was a melancholy quiet – and Aaron knew something was wrong, but figured it was more of his usual wallowing over Lori. At least he'd moved on to someone else, he thought. Someone better. But this was becoming a habit, and one he didn't like seeing in his brother. "Have you heard the parable about the hole in the street?" Aaron asked.

Rick looked at Aaron again as they pulled into the parking lot of Carl's school, joining a long line of cars waiting for their children to be released. "I don't think so," he said, squinting in the afternoon sun; wary of where this was going.

"All right, well it goes, ' _I walk down the street, there's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I'm lost, I'm helpless. It isn't my fault. It takes forever to find a way out_ ,'" Aaron began to explain quickly, determined to get through the short story before Carl could show up. "And then, ' _I walk down the same street, there's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I'm in the same place, but it isn't my fault. It still takes me a long time to get out_.'" He took a breath before continuing. "' _I walk down the same street, there's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it there, but I still fall in. It's a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It's my fault. I get out immediately_ -'"

"Okay," Rick interrupted, "I think I get it."

"Shut up, I'm almost done," he sent back. "' _I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it_ ,'" he said pointedly. And finally, the last line, "' _I walk down another street_.'"

Rick nodded as he stared intently out of the window, internalizing the metaphor and how it related to his own life, and even those around him. "Okay," he replied quietly.

"I don't know if Michonne is on that different street," Aaron conceded. "Maybe you move on, maybe you try again. I have no idea. But I just… I don't want you to get stuck again, Rick."

"I don't want to either," Rick admitted, thinking about how hard it had been to get over Lori. Hell, the only reason he did was because of Michonne. What was he supposed to do now? Move on to someone else? That sounded like falling in the same hole. "But the truth is, I don't know how not to."

Before he could say any more, the doors to the school went swinging open, and classes full of third, fourth, and fifth-graders flocked outside, searching for their parents' cars. Carl found them quickly and hopped into his seat with some extra pep to his step when he realized his uncle was in the front seat. "I didn't know you were gonna be here!" he greeted Aaron brightly. "Dad said you were gonna meet us in the airport."

"I was, but I decided to come in a little early to hang out with your old man," Aaron explained, turning in his seat to give his nephew a high give. "Uncle Zeke is still gonna meet us in a couple hours. His layover's at six."

"What time will we get to LA?" Carl asked, the excitement in his voice not fading.

Rick looked at Carl in his mirror and simply chuckled. "And hello to you, too, Carl."

"Hey, Dad," he responded coolly, oblivious to the fact that he hadn't yet greeted him.

"How was school?"

"It was good," he shrugged. He was already pulling his juice box from his backpack for his afternoon snack as he spoke. "We didn't really do anything except hang out."

Aaron and Rick exchanged knowing looks, Rick glad to know he was paying tuition for his son to 'hang out.' "I'm guessin' you don't have any homework for the week then."

"Nope," he grinned. "But we have a Spanish test the day we get back."

"Oh, we're gonna have to put your Spanish to the test while we're gone then," Aaron said. "LA is a great place for that."

"Mrs. Bermudez said Los Angeles literally means 'the angels'," Carl commented. "I never really noticed it was a Spanish phrase until she said that."

Aaron smiled back at him, amused. "Maybe we should take you down to Mexico while we're there," he said, looking to Rick for permission. "If that's cool with you, Dad."

"You can do that?" Rick asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah," he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "We can drive down to San Diego for a day or two, and from there, you can literally walk to Tijuana through San Ysidro. We can hop on some bikes and explore the city."

"Whoa, that's pretty cool," Carl submitted from the back seat.

Rick nodded, delighted that his son would get to see another country while he was gone. He remembered when he and Michonne discussed taking Carl somewhere for spring break, and he regretted that it obviously wasn't going to work out that way. But at least Carl was still getting his trip. "You ready to add another stamp to your passport?" Rick asked him.

"You should come with us, Dad," Carl suggested, his mouth full of fruit snacks as he spoke. "We already know you're not gonna do anything while I'm gone."

"I have to work," Rick sent back as both Carl and Aaron laughed at the cold reminder that he was back to his old habits; no real life outside of his son. He really did need to do something about that. Find a different street. "But I'll be fine," he promised. "You guys have fun."

* * *

Rick watched the clock turn from 7:49 to 7:50 as he pulled up to the swanky Kayne Prime restaurant, set in the heart of Nashville's trendiest neighborhood, The Gulch. He felt like such a fish out of water, all dressed up with somewhere to go on a Friday night. His lane was more dive bar than upscale steakhouse, but he was rolling with it in the interest of trying something – someone – new. He hoped he wasn't underdressed, still clad in his usual jeans and boots; he added a black t-shirt and paired it with a dark gray Dries Van Noten blazer Aaron had given him years ago. He'd even gone so far as to shave, which seemed to only add to his discomfort. Hell, he felt downright naked.

Still, he handed over his keys and his truck and headed up the steps to the restaurant, where his date, Nora, was waiting near the door. Prior to this evening, she was only known to him as Carl's second grade teacher, Ms. Tadross, so to see her now, in a little black dress, sans glasses, her curly hair wild and free instead of in its usual top knot, was a bit jarring. She'd randomly asked Rick on a date months ago, at the start of the school year, but he'd politely declined for a few reasons, most of them having to do with Michonne. Now, with that relationship officially at its end, and Carl off on his LA adventures, it seemed like a good time to test the waters.

"Well hello there," Nora greeted him, her face lighting up when her handsome companion appeared. She'd never seen him clean-shaven – he was even more attractive than she previously thought.

"Hello," he grinned, offering a quick embrace and a kiss to her cheek. "You look great," he said.

"Oh, thank you." She smiled at him and let it linger as they headed inside and the host immediately led them to their table. She was pleasantly unsurprised when Rick waited for her to claim her seat before taking his – she remembered Carl Grimes having a politeness to him that seemed innate. It made sense he got it from his father.

"This is nice," Rick said as they got settled in the oversized booth. "You've been here before?"

"I haven't," she chuckled as she got a glimpse of the prices on the drink menu alone. "I'd heard great things, so I thought we could try it out together," she said. "But even on private school salary, this is a little outside my range."

"Ah," he nodded, finding the choice odd in that case. "Well… I'm glad you were available on such short notice," he said. "I know teachers tend to go on their own vacations when the kids are out."

"Be careful, or I'm going to start thinking I'm not special," Nora teased.

Rick made a face, his eyebrows raising, but he smiled as he retorted, "Maybe now's a good time to confess that you're not the first teacher I've dated."

Nora's expression then fell into something resembling a frown. "From Battle Ground?" she asked, suddenly worried that this man was just making his way through the staff at his son's school.

"No," he replied emphatically, laughing when he recognized her alarm. "No. My um - my last girlfriend," he described it, unable to call Michonne his ex, "she was a college professor."

"Oh," Nora sent back, both relieved and rather impressed. It wasn't something she ever would've guessed about him. "Well it sounds like maybe you have a type?"

"If you'd seen my dating history, you'd know that's not true," Rick smirked.

"Well now you've got me intrigued," she said.

They were momentarily interrupted by their server, who took their drink orders, Rick opting for a neat whiskey, while Nora asked for just water, which left him wondering if she didn't drink at all. She taught young kids, so that wouldn't have been particularly surprising, but certainly noteworthy. He wondered if she thought anything of him ordering liquor. Had their night gotten off to a good start? Normally, none of this would've crossed his mind, but this idea of getting to know someone new felt much more imposing when the word 'date' was ascribed to it.

"I probably should've asked this before now, but is this against any rules at school?" Rick wondered; his voice lowering as if someone from the academy might hear them.

"Oh, shoot," Nora replied, a smile slowly spreading across her face as she realized she'd never considered it. "I... don't know."

"You don't know?" he repeated.

"I mean, I just assumed since I'm not Carl's teacher anymore, it's fine. That's the only rule I know of. But truthfully, I never thought to check."

Rick let out a heavy sigh, mostly in jest, as he sat back in his seat. "You know all the moms are gonna be gossiping about me now."

"I promise, I've never done anything like this before," Nora declared, hoping he'd believe her. "If anything, I tend to avoid most of the dads around that place like the plague."

"Really? Why's that?"

"Just to bypass all the creepiness," she shook her head. "I mean these are married men, hitting on their kids' teacher. It can be uncomfortable."

"Shit," Rick said, disappointed to hear it. But then, given what happened with Lori, it wasn't news to him that adultery was a common thing.

"It's one of many reasons I miss having Carl in my class," she revealed with another kind smile. "Not only was he was very sweet, very smart, but you never made me dread parent-teacher conferences," she said.

"I do like to believe I'm not particularly creepy," he grinned.

"Accurate assessment," she said.

"Carl misses you, too," Rick went on, just as a busboy came by to fill their water glasses, and he was thankful for the buffer; something to fill the awkward pauses in the conversation. "I don't know that he took to Ms. Frazier the same way this year."

"Well, it took me a while, too," Nora admitted. "You know he tried to drive me crazy with all the drawing."

Rick laughed, remembering them having a discussion about Carl's distractedness just about a year ago. "I know," he nodded. "We're still workin' on that. But he's  _really_  into it, so I also wanna makes sure I nurture that, y'know?"

"And you absolutely should," she agreed. "Maybe not during his social studies lessons, but yes."

"Which reminds me – do you know anything about the summer youth institute at Vandy?" he asked, knowing she'd attended the university as a graduate. "A friend of mine recommended sending him there, but she's not especially familiar with the school."

Nora nodded, but didn't respond at first, taking a sip of her water as she tried to think of a kind, diplomatic way to steer the conversation in a different direction. "I'm so sorry," she said, setting her glass back down. "I really shouldn't have brought up Carl. Because I... don't wanna spend all night being his teacher."

"Oh," Rick responded, taken aback.

"Don't get me wrong," she inserted. "I  _love_  kids. But I spend eighty percent of my life with little seven-year-olds on my mind. I just want tonight to be us. If that makes sense."

"Sure," he nodded. He appreciated the honesty, he supposed. Though he had to question what she was expecting when she asked him out, knowing he was a father. He took an extended sip of his own water, wishing it were his whiskey, before continuing, "Well tell me about yourself then."

"Okay, yeah," she shrugged. "I guess, starting from the beginning, I was born in Japan," she offered, knowing most people liked to latch on to that.

"That's interesting," Rick confirmed.

"Not so much," she said. "I was an Army brat, so it was Okinawa and then Suffolk, United Kingdom. And then Germany. Greece. Guam. We finally settled in the States when I was thirteen," she said as if she were asking, unable to remember for sure, despite telling her life story a hundred times by then. "So we were in Dallas and San Antonio for a while and then ended up in Florida my last couple of years of high school."

"Wow," Rick nodded, unsure whether to be impressed or concerned for her. He wanted Carl to see the world, but probably not that way.

"Yeah," she agreed, seemingly, to whatever he was thinking. "As you can imagine, I don't have a lot of longtime friends," she said. "Never had a relationship that lasted longer than a year, unless you count the ones I've had with cities. Nashville is coming up on my longest one, going on five years now."

"Congratulations," he grinned.

She raised her glass with a smirk. "I try not to get dark about it, but being thirty-five and not a single meaningful relationship, outside my family... I dunno."

Rick stared at her as she spoke, trying her best to make herself sound interesting. He got the distinct feeling she didn't know anything about true darkness. He couldn't imagine it was easy, being carted from place to place as a child, the moment you get comfortable. But he wanted to tell her that most people made friends later on in life anyway. She hadn't missed out on much. Maybe even gained something, learning how  _not_  to get attached. "I think you've got time," he said with a gentle smile.

"Yeah," she granted with a nod. "I'm trying to set down roots here, I guess. Be a stable person and all that jazz. So naturally, I thought I'd try my luck with the divorced dad of one of my former students."

They both laughed. "I hope this doesn't put a wrench in your plans, but I'm not divorced," he informed her. "I was never actually married."

"Really," she replied, obviously surprised to hear it. "I just assumed…"

"Most people do," he shrugged.

"I realize I've made all these assumptions about you based solely on things Carl said or did," Nora chuckled at herself. "But I don't even know what you do for a living. Carl seemed to think you just make tables, but… that can't be it."

"Well, there's not a lot more to it than that," he confessed. "I've sold some of my designs to a larger company, and that's definitely made our lives a little easier." He was trying not to blush as he spoke – he hated talking about money. "But I have a shop in Mount Juliet where we make custom things. But nothin' fancy."

Nora nodded, fascinated that he'd managed to make a fortune that way. "You don't seem to like fancy things," she noted, thinking of the old, beat up Chevy he always pulled up in. "That's novel. People are so material these days."

"I don't know that that's any different than any other days," he said, trying to hide his disappointment in her assumption – especially given them sitting in a restaurant where they were about to eat $80-dollar steaks. "And I like to think I have good taste."

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she instantly replied. "Yeah, no, of course. I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Rick smiled again. "I was joking, really." He'd hoped she would use that opportunity for a witty comeback, but they weren't there yet, he supposed. At least she was nice enough to apologize in the event she offended him. Still, that didn't stop the conversation from coming to an awkward halt, the two of them sipping water until their server swooped in to save them.

Rick hadn't been on a first date since he was in his twenties, and the clumsy push and pull of conversation with someone new – someone he had no idea whether he was compatible with – was a reminder of why he'd never tried it after Lori. Michonne was a bit of an anomaly, the way she just appeared in his life and intrigued him from the start, the two of them practically stumbling into something more. Their chemistry was unlike anything he'd ever experienced with anyone else, and maybe that was why nothing felt quite right after her. He should've been more interested in Nora. By all accounts, she was great: Kind. Smart. Devastatingly pretty. Uncomplicated. Their exchanges went the way they were supposed to go – he'd ask something, and she'd answer. She offered of herself easily – even down to asking him out in the first place.

But this wasn't going to end with the two of them staring each other down in his kitchen as they ate ice cream.

Was that what he needed? Was he so damaged that he  _enjoyed_  having to work for open communication? If so, it was going to be harder to climb out of his hole than he thought.

By the end of the night, Rick wasn't even sure that he knew Nora any better. He knew several factoids about her, but his image of her as Carl's affable, attractive teacher hadn't changed. And he wasn't sure that he wanted it to. "So this was nice," he would comment as he signed his name to the exorbitant check. "I'm really glad you were free."

Nora smiled warmly at him. "Yeah, this was great," she agreed, nodding. "I hope we can do it again. Maybe I can buy you dinner."

"Barbecue next time," he suggested.

"Or hot chicken," she submitted instead, laughing. She watched him finish his second drink of the night, and decided that if she was going to shoot her shot, it had to be now. With Carl out of town, it was her best chance. "So are you okay to drive?" she asked, her tone affecting concern. "I can take you home if you want."

"Oh," Rick said, genuinely taken by surprise – the thought of going home with this woman didn't cross his mind all night. Even as that was a completely normal thing to do at the end of a date. And maybe it was what he needed – maybe this was his different street. But his first and only thought was what it was like to be with Michonne, and it would likely consume his thoughts for the rest of the evening if he did go that route. Nora didn't deserve that. Or maybe she did – he had no way of knowing at that point. But he wasn't prepared to drop all his baggage off at yet another person's door just so he could try to get over someone else. "I think I'm all right," he said, pretending he wasn't sure about it. "Next time, you can come pick me up."

"Well. I'm glad there's a next time," Nora said earnestly. "Otherwise, it's gonna be extremely awkward when I pass you in the hall at school."

"I dunno, you did a pretty good job avoiding me the last few months," he joked as they stood from their table. "I think we could do it again."

"You weren't supposed to notice that," she smiled.

Together, the two of them made their way through the lively restaurant, back out to the valet stand, each of them handing over their tickets; standing there quietly in the cool evening, Nora pretending she wasn't disappointed she was going home alone, while Rick tried to think of a closing line.

"Oh, this is me," Nora announced when she noticed the white Jetta headed toward them.

"That was quick," Rick commented, traces of relief instantly washing over him. "Well thank you again," he said. He went in for another hug and peck to her cheek, though this kiss landed much closer to her lips than intended. "Get home safely."

"You, too," she nodded, squeezing his arm as they separated. "Have a good night."

Grinning, Nora headed to her car and Rick watched as she gave him a final glance before slipping inside. He didn't know that he would ever see Nora again – not outside the halls of Battle Ground Academy, anyway – but the fact that he'd gone through with it, it left him quietly hopeful that he could move on from Michonne if he wanted to.

* * *

"This looks so good," Michonne enthusiastically declared, eyeing her food as it was served. She knew she had no business eating pasta with summer right around the corner, but she was indulging for the sake of her companion.

"This is  _real_  Italian," Lucille stated emphatically, her thick accent doing a lot of the work. "Not that dreck they serve in these pizza shops disguised as restaurants."

Michonne smiled at her as she set her napkin in her lap, eager to dig in. The two of them were seated in the corner of a tiny restaurant on the upper east side of Manhattan. She'd been in D.C. all week for meetings at the World Health Organization, but promised her ex-future-mother-in-law she would set aside some time to make it up to New York. Lucille had been asking to see her since the beginning of the year, and Michonne kept putting it off because of everything happening with Negan, so a couple of days in the city felt like the least she could do.

"So where are you headed after this?" Lucille asked after taking a big bite of her penne. "You're always on the go these days, it seems like."

Michonne's eyes flitted up at Lucille, unsure whether that was meant as as a little friendly shade. "I'm back to D.C. for the rest of the week," she said, wiping her mouth, "and then I head home."

"Home," Lucille repeated. "As in…"

"Tennessee," she confirmed.

"Right."

"I know it must feel strange to hear me say that," Michonne recognized, her tone sympathetic. "It's still odd for me to say, even now. But for the foreseeable future, that's... what it is."

"I know, doll," Lucille promised her, reaching across the table to affectionately rub her hand. "You don't need to be ashamed of it."

"I'm not," Michonne said, returning the tender gesture by rubbing her thumb along Lucille's hand. "I feel at peace there, and that's something I haven't had in ages. I just - I didn't wanna sit here and be gleeful over… what happened."

"My sweet girl…" Lucille grinned at her warmly. "You get to be gleeful over what happened," she said. "You did the right thing."

Michonne looked at her curiously, wondering whether they were talking about the same event.

Laughing at her expression, Lucille went on, "Unfortunately – and I know this from experience – women often have to make the difficult decisions. Because no one else will," she said. "And then we get the blame for it." She let out a heavy-hearted sigh and took a long sip of her wine as thoughts of her dead husband filled her mind. She set down her dwindling glass and looked Michonne in the eye. "You deserve your glee."

Michonne nodded vehemently, the backs of her eyes stinging with tears and she frowned to keep them from brimming. "Thank you," she said. She returned to her food, a calm washing over her, allowing her to relax, sitting there with this woman who had every right to hate her; to hate the world, really, after the life she had, the home she'd lived in with an abusive man for 35 years. She inwardly questioned what Lucille meant when she said she had to make the hard decisions. Michael, her husband, passed away from a heart attack, as far as she'd been told. Maybe the decision not to leave was her decision. Indecision.

As they ate, Michonne went through entire ridiculous scenarios in her head, where Lucille had managed to kill her husband in a way that  _looked_  like a heart attack, her thoughts only halted by her phone beginning to ring in her purse. She generally kept it on silent, so to hear it ring out loud startled her. "I'm so sorry," she said, digging through her big tote to quiet it – only to find that it was a FaceTime call coming from Rick, which gave her pause. She couldn't imagine what he would want, and certainly not via video, but she was anxious to find out. "I'm so sorry," she told Lucille again. "I need to step out and take this."

"Oh please, take your time," Lucille waved her off, happily indulging in her pasta. "I'm gonna get us some more wine."

"Okay," she laughed. Thankful for her ease, Michonne rushed outside to answer before she could miss him, forgetting the April rain that had claimed the city, forcing her to step under the awning of a nearby deli. When she opened the call, she was thrown to see a familiar little round face and a toothy grin staring back at her. "Hey Carl," she answered tentatively, an awkward smile on her face, failing to hide her surprise. She hadn't a clue why he was calling – she hadn't spoken to Rick in almost a month now – so the suddenness of it had her worried. "Is your dad okay?"

"Hey, Michonne," he returned, waving at her coolly. "My dad is fine," he said. "Where the heck are you?" he frowned, noting the weird, dirty background of her picture.

She managed to relax when it seemed that nothing was wrong. "I'm in New York right now," she chuckled. She turned her phone around and panned it in front of her so that he could see the streets full of cars, and then showed him the entrance of the store behind her.

"Whoa, cool," he said, sounding genuinely fascinated by the view. So many of his favorite comics and movies took place right there. "I hope that's the next place I get to visit," he added. "Maybe my dad'll take me over the summer."

"Maybe so," she grinned, knowing Rick would do it in a heartbeat if he asked. "By the way, how was your trip to LA?"

"It was so cool!" he said animatedly. "Guess who I met."

Michonne gasped. "Not Chris Evans," she said, knowing he'd be at the top of Carl's list. Not to mention, it was still a few months before he'd get to utilize her Christmas gift to him.

"No, not Chris Evans," Carl answered deflatedly – now his answer wouldn't sound nearly as cool. "I met Zendaya!"

"Oh!" she replied, genuinely enthused, even as she had no idea who that was. "Who… is that?" she giggled.

"Dude," Carl shook his head, disappointed. "I thought we were past this, Michonne."

"I must've forgotten," she grimaced. "I'm sorry."

"She's KC Undercover, and more importantly, she's MJ in the new Spider-Man movies."

" _Oh_ , right, right, right." Michonne nodded as a vague image of the young lady came to mind. "How on earth did you meet her?"

"Uncle Zeke knows her dad," he explained, "and she was, like, leaving when we went over to his house. It was really cool."

"Wow," Michonne grinned, unreservedly excited for him. And he sounded so sophisticated. So much older, somehow, than the last time she saw him, four months prior. He would be turning nine soon, and she could feel that change in him already. Although they'd only spent all of a month together, she'd missed the hell out of him, and this call was just stirring up all those old feelings. "You're just becoming a little jetsetter, huh?"

"I've only been to three new places," he said bashfully. "Before that, I had only been to, like, Texas."

"Don't sell yourself short. You've been pretty far in just a few months, my friend."

"I guess that's true," he granted. He briefly took out one of his earbuds to see if he could hear his father walking around upstairs and then replaced it. "This isn't why I called though," he admitted, suddenly turning serious.

"Oh." Michonne sobered up as well, her eye wandering to the time on the call. Hopefully Lucille was still enjoying her pasta and wine. "Well what's up?"

"I miss you, Michonne," he said simply and sincerely.

She actually felt her heart crumble to pieces at those four little words, as they seemed even more potent than when Rick said the same; perhaps because she'd been with Rick so recently, and with Carl, it felt like an eternity. She had to work overtime to hold back tears, her voice cracking as she answered, "I miss you too, bud."

"Do you?" he asked. "Because I haven't heard from you at all. I let it go with Black Panther, because my dad said you weren't feeling well, but Avengers comes out  _next week_  and nothing."

"Carl, I'm so sorry," she shook her head, at a loss for anything substantive. She couldn't explain it without revealing far too much about her relationship with Rick, and that wasn't her place. "Your dad and I, we're just-"

"Yeah, I know you're not together anymore," he said dismissively – as if it were a minor part of the story and not  _the_  story. But for him, it didn't matter. "That didn't mean you were supposed to give up on me," he said.

Michonne nodded in concession. "You're right," she said. "Maybe…" She sighed, unsure how Rick felt at this point about any of this. She wasn't even sure he'd allowed Carl to call her. "I'll have to talk to your dad, see what you guys' schedule is like, but maybe we can plan a movie night when I'm back in Tennessee."

"Okay," he said. "But you know we have to see Infinity War on opening day."

"I do know," she chuckled. "I don't know if I'll be back in time, but I'll see what I can do," she said, hoping that allowed enough cushion in case Rick was uncomfortable with the idea.

"Okay," Carl conceded with an excited nod. "I kno-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Rick had snatched the phone from his son's grasp, concerned about who he'd be video chatting with without permission. It was precisely the reason he wasn't into all these fancy phones. "What are you doing," he demanded, taking one of the earbuds from Carl's ear. Rick heard Michonne's voice call out to him, allowing him to breath easy with the confirmation that his son wasn't talking to some predator. But his heart immediately began to beat faster knowing it was  _her_. "What'd I tell you about using my phone?" Rick continued to reprimand his son.

"Well whenever I ask to call, you say she's busy, so I just wanted to try for myself," Carl defended.

Rick let out a heavy sigh. Because he knew better – he couldn't just introduce this woman to his son and then take her away and expect that to be the end of it. He'd been trying to protect him from the messiness of it all, but Carl was just too smart – and too caring – to let Michonne go so easily. He reluctantly raised the phone to his face, Michonne's visage looking back at him. She looked pretty – even more so than usual. She was wearing earrings for the first time since he'd known her, he noticed. A set of three small, dangling gold hoops in each ear. It gave a certain glimmer to her face. "Hey," he greeted her. "Sorry about that. Carl has a tendency to forget he's not the adult here."

"No, it's fine," she said, smiling at him. Feeling that ache again. The way he put it when they were in Gatlinburg –  _I miss you even though I'm with you_  – she felt that. She had to physically stop herself from reaching out to touch the screen. "It was actually really nice to hear from him."

"Go get your stuff," he directed Carl before replying to Michonne. "He's been missing you, so I am glad you got to talk for a bit."

"He actually asked me if we could go to the movies," she said, grimacing, bracing herself for Rick's response. "I don't know if you're okay with that, but maybe we can talk about it later?" she asked.

"Yeah," he nodded awkwardly, inwardly shaking his head at his precocious son. "We should actually get goin'," he went on. "He's got karate."

"No, that's fine," she nodded back, realizing then why Carl was dressed in all white. "I'll text you about it later."

"Sounds good," Rick said. His eyes narrowed at her, unable to figure out what he was seeing in the background. "Where… are you?"

"New York," she chuckled, feeling like she was having deja vu; though she bypassed giving him the full view. "I was in D.C. for work stuff and decided to come up for the weekend to visit a friend."

"You and your friends," he smirked.

"I'm actually at lunch with  _her_  now," she said, catching the pointedness in his tone. "I should get back..."

"You left lunch to answer the phone?" he asked, his simper not leaving.

"Yeah," she said. "I thought it was you calling me on FaceTime, so I didn't wanna take it in the restaurant."

Rick nodded. Maybe it wasn't noteworthy that she dropped what she was doing to answer his call, but he noted it anyway. "All right, well yeah, text me when you're free," he said. "Carl would love it if you could take him to the movies."

"I would too," she said genuinely. "I'll talk to you later."

"Yep."

She waved goodbye and let out a sigh of relief once he was gone. It felt like she'd been holding her breath their entire conversation, and she wasn't even sure why. She stepped back inside with a smile on her lips, despite her food likely being cold by now. But the idea that Rick trusted her – again, or perhaps still; she didn't know – enough to take Carl to the movies, it left her in a good mood. "I'm so sorry about that," she announced, reclaiming her seat across from Lucille. "I thought it was my… friend calling, but it was actually his son, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay."

Lucille waved her off, refilling Michonne's glass from the bottle of Sangiovese she'd ordered for them. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," Michonne nodded, starting to stir her food.

Lucille gazed at her, waiting for her lunch companion to reveal the rest of the story. When she said nothing, she decided to ask, "Which of your friends has a son old enough to make FaceTime calls?"

Michonne looked up, her mouth full, and chuckled at the question, feeling like she'd been caught. She'd forgotten that Lucille did know most of their old crew. "My friend Rick," she admitted. "And he's not really my friend, but more of…"

"A lover," Lucille finished for her knowingly. She could tell by her smile when she walked back inside. "He's who you met in Tennessee?"

"He is," she confirmed, taking a gulp of her wine then. "Although more of an ex-lover at this point, I guess."

"Why's that?" she pressed.

Michonne shook her head, knowing the answer probably only made sense to herself. "It just... didn't work."

"Michonne..."

She sighed. "Because... before two months ago, I was spiraling," she said. "It feels like it's been this long, slow decline. Jumping from one relationship to the next, leaving pieces of myself with every man I'd been with. And then I shattered after Anthony," she nodded. "And… for the first time in so long, I'm starting to feel like a whole person again. There are still those hollow spaces that may never be filled, not after what happened," she acknowledged, her voice low and earnest. "I feel… healthier," Michonne went on. "But the truth is, it takes work to be this way, to feel…  _okay._  Going to therapy isn't all of it. It takes waking up every morning and deciding, 'This is who I'm gonna be. I'm not going to be defined by this loss. I'm not going to destroy this person who loves me.' And I'm working on that like hell," she frowned, those damn tears threatening to surface yet again. "Rick deserves someone who knows who she's gonna be every day."

"He told you that?" Lucille asked.

"No," she confessed. "But he has a kid. He has a life. I can't expect him to just sit around waiting for me to be ready." As nice as that would've been, she'd toiled with Negan for too long not to know better; she was the living, breathing result of being with someone struggling with their mental and emotional health on a daily basis. She couldn't pass that burden on to Rick.

Lucille closed her eyes, shaking her head. She saw so much of herself in Michonne – and so much of Negan in her husband. Not the bad parts, necessarily, but enough to know what Michonne had been through the last six years. And she was going to let it ruin her next relationship. "I don't have any degrees and I don't know about all that psychology you kids are into these days, but cara mia, if you've found someone who makes your life better, you hold onto him. Because most of us don't get that lucky," she shook her head. "You hold onto him and you don't let go."

* * *

 

It was the last Friday of April and Michonne and Carl had taken to the fancy AMC dine-in theater near Rick's house for their Avengers adventure, both of them figuring it would be a light, fun outing for their long-awaited reunion. And on the way there, it had been – Carl was excited to finally tell Michonne what he'd been up to for the past several months, including his play and his trips. Michonne listened with glee, adoring the way he told stories with the detail of a grown up, but with the passion of a child. In turn, she told him about how she'd been thinking of getting a new car and wondered if he had any suggestions. It had all gone so well.

The ride home, however, was turning out to be just about the opposite. It was a beautiful 75-degree day in Nashville, but inside Michonne's car, things were downright dreary. Carl was silent, staring straight out of the window to his right as Michonne drove him home. She glanced at him via her rearview mirror, hoping she hadn't somehow broken Rick's child with this film. The only thing worse would've been if Captain America had disappeared at the end of the movie, too.

"Carl?" she called out to him cautiously. When his head snapped on her direction, he seemed a little less dismayed, which was a relief. Maybe he was just contemplative. "You okay?"

He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Yeah," he said sadly. "I guess I just wasn't ready for that. I thought the sad stuff would be in the next movie."

Michonne nodded. Even she hadn't been expecting something so heavy out of a Marvel joint. The entire packed theater felt like it was on mute for the last fifteen minutes of the movie. "What part did you lose it?" she asked him.

"Definitely at, 'Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good.'"

She laughed knowingly, and she noticed he smiled back. "Yeah," she exhaled, too. She didn't have a fraction of the affection he did for these characters, and even she felt it. "But you wanna know what I think?"

"Yeah," he said, hoping she'd be able to free him from this misery.

"I think this is all part of the plan, and they're all gonna be fine."

Carl lit up – briefly – as he stared at the back of Michonne's head. "You do?"

"I do," she assured him. "Remember, Dr. Strange said this was the only way.  _And_  the Time stone can reverse all of this, can't it?"

"I guess so. If all the stones aren't destroyed after that snap," he mumbled flatly.

"It'd be nice if we could rewind stuff at the movies like it's on DVR, wouldn't it?" she said.

"Oh my god, I kept wanting to do that," he agreed excitedly. "I kept lifting my candy like it was the remote."

Michonne giggled at him, grateful to see he'd cheered up a bit. She would have a lot to answer for if she brought a perfectly happy child back to his father sulking. "So besides the ending, how did you like the movie?" she said. .

"It was good," Carl nodded, back to his typical cool, calm collectedness. "I'm excited for the next part because Tony and Steve will have to be together again."

"Oh yeah, probably so," she granted.

"And I think it's gonna be kinda weird at first because of what happened," he said. "But you know what? In the end, I bet they're gonna be closer than they ever were."

Michonne smiled. He was so insightful. And it was so strange to hear such wisdom come from that little face. Then again, kids were so much smarter than most adults gave them credit for anyway. It was one of the reasons she'd looked forward to being a mother – getting to know some little person, seeing the world through his eyes, learning and growing with him. As they got closer to Rick's building, she wanted to make sure Carl knew how much she appreciated this outing and the privilege of hanging out with him for a little while. "Hey, thanks for letting me go to the movies with you," she declared seriously. "I know you were worried about my level of Marvel expertise going in, so hopefully I didn't embarrass you too much."

Carl chuckled. "I thought you were gonna ask way more questions than you did," he said. "Were you confused at all?"

"A little," she admitted, laughing too. "I was able to put most of it together, but I really didn't understand Dr. Strange's powers."

"Nobody does," he shook his head. "He's basically a wizard."

"Mm. I think it's on Netflix now, maybe I'll give it a try over the weekend," she suggested, slowing down once she reached Rick's block, looking for places to park. She missed the days of spending the night there with Rick – and not just because she was already dreading the long drive home back to Gatlinburg. "Let me know if you see any spaces," she said to Carl, scanning her side of the street.

"Dad is parked on the street, so you can just take his space in the garage," Carl proposed.

"I'm... not gonna do that," she chuckled again, eventually finding a spot near the corner. "You know you can't just give away your dad's stuff like that."

"He would be okay with it," Carl insisted. "He was gonna add you to the list, but then you guys broke up."

Michonne frowned, though her focus on trying to parallel park didn't allow her to truly take heed of what he was saying. "I should've asked your dad if you needed to get dinner," she mumbled to herself, realizing it was almost 7:00 as she turned off the car. "Are you hungry?" she asked, turning back to him.

Carl shrugged. "A little, but not really."

"When you get upstairs, you let him know that you had macaroni and cheese and some popcorn," she instructed. "How many of those gummy bears did you have?"

"Not a lot," he said, passing her the box for her to inspect.

The two of them piled out of the car and headed into Rick's upscale building, where Michonne was flooded with memories of the short time she spent coming there. Reminded of much she loved this place – its openness and brightness. Coming to this place was what made her want to restart her life.

She buzzed Rick's apartment, despite knowing he hadn't changed the code. She thought about how she had all this access to his homes, how he'd really trusted her right from the start. He answered as she was lost in her musings, and it took her a moment to remember why she was there. "Oh, hey, I'm sending him up," she said to the intercom.

"Are you gonna come up?" he replied.

"No... I've got a long drive back," she said. "You guys enjoy your night."

"Michonne," Carl interjected in a whisper, disappointed to hear her answer. "Please stay."

She looked at that little pleading face, unsure how she was supposed to resist. But this outing wasn't supposed to be another excuse to see Rick. Every time she was with him, she only felt more… things.

"Stay," Rick said on the other end of the conversation. "I made dinner."

"Oh… kay," she reluctantly agreed, surprised by the invitation. He was probably only doing so because Carl had asked, but after their last dinner, even that was generous. Their relationship was so awkward, navigating it in front of the kid wouldn't be easy.

Still, Michonne led Carl through the lobby and to the elevators, where they waited for it to come and whisk them upstairs. As they did, Carl stared at Michonne inquisitively. "What did my dad do?" he wondered, sounding almost worried by it.

Michonne cocked her head, baffled by the random question. "What?" she smiled uneasily.

"What did my dad do to make you break up?" he repeated. "Why don't you wanna stay?"

"He didn't do anything," she assured him, chuckling in another attempt to hide her discomfort. "I just... didn't know you guys wanted to hang out. I was planning to head back home."

"You can spend the night," he said as the elevator arrived.

Michonne laughed at the way he kept offering up his father's amenities without consulting him. "It's fine," she grinned at him. Rick came to her dinner when she asked; the least she could do was come to his.

When they arrived to his apartment, Michonne paused, for just a moment, as the memories continued to seize her. Remembering the first and last times she'd stepped into this magnificent home. It was as though she'd spent years there instead of a matter of weeks. It didn't even make sense, the effect this relationship still had on her.

"Something smells good," Carl commented as they continued inside.

He was right about that, though Michonne couldn't quite make out the aroma. And before she had the chance, Rick's neighbor, Sherry, came strolling out of the kitchen with a Ziploc bag in hand, startling both her and Carl.

"Oh, hey there," Sherry greeted them, but mostly Michonne, with a big smile as she flipped her bangs from her face. "Long time, no see."

"I know," Michonne nodded, plastering an equally cheerful grin on her face. "How have you been?" She noticed Rick appear in the threshold of the kitchen, seemingly watching their exchange as Carl approached him.

"I'm good, I'm good," she nodded. "Not so great with the meal planning," she joked, holding up the bag of eggs she'd borrowed from Rick, "but besides that…"

"It happens to the best of us," Michonne assured her with a shrug.

"Eh. Rick always seems to be prepared," Sherry noted, turning back to him.

"That's true," she replied, raising an amused eyebrow at him. "Sometimes, he just seems a little too good to be true, doesn't he?"

"Ain't that the truth," she agreed with a laugh.

Michonne was officially out of things to say to this woman she'd only met in passing maybe twice. She wasn't entirely sure Sherry even knew her name. "Well," she said, "it's really good to see you, girl. This was a nice little surprise."

"Yeah, yeah, same here," Sherry nodded enthusiastically. "Don't be a stranger."

The two women finished their conversation with polite smiles, Sherry going on her way, while Michonne continued toward the kitchen, where Rick seemed to be waiting for her. "Hey," she greeted him casually, for the second time that day.

"How was the movie?" he asked. So far, he'd gotten only a one-word review from Carl.

"Devastating," she answered simply, looking to Carl for confirmation. "Right?"

The eight-year-old shook his head just thinking about it. "You won't have to worry about seeing this one seven times, Dad," he said. "My heart can't take it."

Rick laughed at his dramatic response and ruffled his hair. "Well that's a relief," he said. "You should take your stuff upstairs and get washed up for dinner," he directed him, pointing to his backpack still sitting on the dining table. "It's just about ready."

Michonne and Rick watched him dutifully scamper off, leaving the two of them alone, Michonne eyeing her friend as he went to his crockpot concoction. "What's for dinner?" she wondered, inching toward him and the pot to see what was inside.

He glanced at her, taking note of the way she was dressed, in her striped silky blouse and jeans and Tory Burch flats – she looked like all the moms at school. He chuckled to himself before answering, "Pulled pork tacos." He turned and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he observed her, waiting for her to say what she really wanted to say.

"Carnitas," she nodded, impressed. She went to the sink to wash her hands, but could feel him watching her the way she'd been him just a few seconds prior. "What?" she smirked.

"She just needed to borrow some eggs," he submitted.

"I didn't say anything," she laughed.

"You didn't say anything with your mouth," he retorted, smirking back. "It's in your eyes.

"Oh, right," Michonne said, still smiling as she dried her hands. "Maybe you just know as well as I do that I was right about her wanting you."

"I didn't say that…"

"Yeah, well. It's in your eyes," she joked. "'Can I borrow some eggs?'" she said, imitating Sherry's nondescript white-girl voice. "That's the oldest trick in the book." She concentrated on laying the dishtowel over the sink – as if it took so much effort – knowing Rick still had his eyes on her. "I'm surprised I never tried it."

"Probably because you never needed to," he commented quietly.

Michonne looked back at him, their eyes locking briefly before hers averted to the floor. He was so attractive, it was hard to look at him sometimes. She still wasn't sure how he managed to make jeans and a simple black button-down the sexiest thing in the world. "I guess that's true," she admitted, brushing a stray loc behind her ear.

"You wanna hear somethin' funny?" he asked.

"You know I wanna hear it even if it isn't funny," she replied.

He sighed, unsure how to even say it – she would be the first person he even told about it. But he'd been wanting to share it with her. He wanted to share everything with her. "I went on a date," he revealed, his eyes nervously staying on her as he waited for her response.

She cracked a smile, on the verge of laughing, but she wasn't quite sure why she found it funny. Maybe it was a pained smile, but the sting was too fresh for her to recognize it as such. "With Sherry?" she asked.

"No," he frowned as if the notion were ridiculous. His voice went quieter as he said, "Carl's old teacher. The one I told you about."

"The one who asked you out?" Michonne grinned, genuinely amused by that. He'd previously described the teacher as an Alicia Keys type, and she couldn't at all picture Rick with someone like that. " _Really_?"

"Yeah," he blushed, bashfully scratching at the curls at his nape.

"How'd it go?"

"To be honest, I don't know," he chuckled. "It was nothin' special, but I don't think my heart was in it either."

"Mm."

"And I kinda felt… used by the end of the night?" he shrugged, uncertain he was using the right word. " I mean, she offered to go Dutch, but she'd already told me the place was out of her budget, so… I dunno what I was supposed to do with that."

"She told you that?" Michonne asked.

"Yeah," he nodded. He was relieved that she found it as strange as he did. "And then she asked to come home with me, and... I don't know," he sighed. "I woke up the next day and realized she probably just wanted sex in the first place."

"Oh." His statement took her by surprise, and she nearly stumbled as she remembered just what it was like to have sex with Rick Grimes; her body temperature rising in response. After having the experience herself, she couldn't exactly blame the girl. "Well, I mean... that is what people... do."

He eyed her, trying not to think of all the things he and Michonne used to... do. It was a long, awkward journey to get there, but it had sure as hell been worth it. "I guess that's true."

"I take it you… didn't then," she asked cautiously. It wasn't her business of course, but if he didn't want her to know, if he didn't want to have this conversation, he wouldn't have mentioned it.

He shook his head, sobering from their levity. "No," he confirmed.

Michonne nodded. She couldn't pretend she wasn't relieved. Rick was technically free to do what he wanted, but it would be hard to sit through dinner with him, knowing he'd been with someone else recently. All while recognizing that it wasn't healthy to feel so territorial over him. She still had so much work to do.

"Are you glad I didn't?" he asked, seeming to read her mind.

"Yes," she answered, nearly inaudibly; biting her bottom lip as she stared at him. God, this dinner was a bad idea. All of it was a bad idea.  _Just eat your food and go_ , she said to herself.

Rick nodded, appreciating her candor. Before he could respond in kind, Carl was on his way downstairs, having washed his hands and face and exchanged his school shoes for slippers. He thought surely dinner would be on the table by the time he returned, but it seemed his dad and Michonne were just standing there. "Hey, Dad? Is it okay if Michonne stays over tonight?"

Michonne's eyes went wide at the question and she sighed, embarrassed. Though it was funny that Carl was asking for her stay as if she were  _his_  friend instead of Rick's. Then again, maybe that would end up being the case. "Carl, I'm fine getting home," she promised him.

"That drive is  _so_  long, Michonne."

Rick kept his eyes on her as he moved around her to collect plates from the cabinet. "You should stay," he asserted coolly.

She was surprised, again, by the offer – the ease of it, especially. "Rick, you don't have to…" She shook her head, knowing how tense he'd been the last time they were together.  _Just eat your food and go_.

"You can get a hotel if you really want to, but I wouldn't feel comfortable with you driving back so late," he said.

"You did the same thing just a few weeks ago," she reminded him.

"Yeah, and it was a terrible, arduous drive in the dark, which is why I don't want you to do it."

She smiled at him appreciatively. She could've easily left now and been home by 11:00 with the time change. But he seemed to want whatever this was, likely just for Carl, so she would at least consider it. "We'll see," she said. "We should eat."

* * *

"Dad, what time is it?" Carl wondered as he popped a grape into his mouth.

Rick glanced at his watch and then at Michonne before answering, "It's a little after eight." He eyed his son, curious as to why he was asking; wondering if he had some other trick up his sleeve for himself and Michonne.

"Oh man, it's too late to call Enid now," he said, slumping in his chair. "I need to know how she's doing after the movie."

"Oh yeah," Rick acknowledged, looking over to Michonne again. "Enid's a big Spider-Man fan."

"So I've heard," she grinned tiredly. She was so full from their delicious dinner, she was practically falling asleep at the table, but she didn't want the night to end. They'd been having such a good time with their carnitas and easy conversation. As it turned out, Carl was the perfect buffer between them, distracting her from that unending pang inside her that made her wish they could go back to this. She didn't just love these two people, but she genuinely liked them. Spending time with them was  _fun_. She'd watched the video of Carl in his school play and swelled with pride watching this charismatic kid light up the stage unlike anyone else. She'd gotten to see pictures of him in Los Angeles and Tijuana and he was finally able to give her the French comic book he'd gotten for her in Paris. They talked Avengers – of course – and Rick's next big job, which would send him to Seattle the following week; and she told them all about her research project receiving the grant they needed, and how she'd be heading to southern Africa and Haiti over the summer, sparking a dialogue about the place her parents called home. It was a simple, quiet, nice evening, and she wanted it to stay just like this.

"Is it too late to call her, Dad?"

"Yes," Rick answered with raised eyebrows. "You should be takin' a bath and gettin' ready for bed yourself."

"Dad," Carl started to whine. "It's Friday."

"And you haven't done any homework, so you're already ahead of the curve," he reminded him, taking a yogurt-covered grape for himself. "You can call her in the morning."

"But Mom is taking us to see it tomorrow," he contested. "There's not gonna be any point by then."

"Imagine that," Rick teased him; though thanks to his good mood, it didn't take long for him to surrender. "Go get my phone off the kitchen table," he directed him. "You can have  _five minutes_  if her parents say it's all right."

Michonne watched their exchange like it was a TV show – she was always enthralled when she got to watch Rick be a parent, the way he struck the balance between being firm and fun. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of mother she would've been. Her mind involuntarily recalled what Negan spoke of in their last therapy session – how he wrote to their child, vividly imagined being a father. She supposed these kinds of thoughts would never fully fade, but god, she wished they would.

Meanwhile, Carl went on to make his phone call. Rick kept his eyes on Michonne, because he couldn't keep his eyes off Michonne, as Carl talked to his friend on speaker, their eight-year-old joy filling the room. He wanted to ask if she'd decided to stay, but he didn't want to seem overzealous. He thought about it after their last get-together, that she'd invited him to her house because she wanted to be with him, and his response was this strange seesaw between pathetic and apathetic. So he was trying to do this one differently, even if only for his own sanity.

As the kids finished their call, Rick began pulling the dirty dishes toward him. "All right, bud. Say goodnight to Michonne," he instructed Carl. "I'll be up to run your bath in a sec."

Carl begrudgingly picked himself up from his seat and went to give his friend a hug. "Thanks again for coming today," he told her. "Next up is Ant-Man."

Michonne chuckled and did her best not to squeeze him as they embraced, for all the hugs they'd missed the last few months. "You sleep tight," she said, tousling his hair the way Rick often did. "I got the dishes," she told the elder Grimes with a wink. "You go on up."

Grateful for the reprieve, Rick led Carl upstairs, while Michonne took their plates to the kitchen, scraping the few remnants into the garbage disposal while snacking on frozen grapes. There was only enough pork left in the crockpot for maybe two tacos, so she wrapped up the leftovers for Rick, knowing he'd be on his own the next day. She was putting seran wrap over the pico de gallo when Rick reappeared.

"He wanted me to tell you that he may be gone before you wake up, so have a safe trip home," he announced for Carl.

Michonne smiled. "He's so thoughtful," she said.

"I appreciate you comin' all the way out here just for this," Rick replied. "It meant a lot to him."

She shrugged it off. "You used to come see me every weekend. You didn't seem to mind."

"Well… I always got somethin' worth comin' for," he retorted suggestively.

"Stop," she grinned, forcing herself to ignore the butterflies suddenly aflutter in her stomach. "This was worth coming for, too."

He knew that wasn't true, but he couldn't tell her how much he appreciated her driving four hours to see a movie she had no interest in, just for his son. "You can take my bed tonight," he told her – a show of said appreciation. Also a nudge for her to stick around. "I'm gonna crash with Carl."

Michonne frowned at his offer as she went to the sink to begin washing. "No," she said emphatically. "I'm fine on the couch."

"Please don't fight me on this," Rick said.

"Fine," she sighed, moving out of the way. "You wash. I'm gonna finish dessert."

He smirked as he went to assume duty over the dishes while she took the bowl of grapes and leaned against the opposite counter, watching him. "Reminds me of Thanksgiving," he commented.

Michonne nodded despite his back being turned to her, but she tried not to dwell too much on it or she'd burst into tears.

"Is it just me, or are things always better between us here?" he wondered out loud.

"I was just thinking about that," she said as she added her emptied bowl to the pile. "Maybe it's because you're more comfortable here."

"Oh, so it's just me then?" he asked, his tone a mixture of flirtatious and curious.

"I dunno." She smiled timidly, feeling her face growing warm as he looked back at her. She felt tipsy, and she hadn't had a drop all day. She let out a short exhale, looking around the large kitchen for a way to change the subject. "I'm surprised you have a crockpot," she declared randomly. "I don't even have one anymore."

He went to where Michonne stood beside it, giving the appliance a cursory glance. "You can have it."

"That's not what I meant," she grinned.

"No, I know, but you can," he said. "Think of it as a housewarming gift."

"Stop trying to give me things," she chuckled, shaking her head. He moved closer to her and she ignored every impulse in her body that said to take a step back. "You've given me enough." Her words came out in a mumble, too distracted by his lips to speak her piece with any certitude.

Rick gazed back at her, his mind swimming with all the highlights of their short history together. How she came to this place the first time, and they stood in this very spot, slow dancing, but rapidly falling. Did she remember that? Did she remember it the same way he did? He wanted to ask, and he opened his mouth to do so, but the way she was looking at him, those big, pleading eyes, they already told him that she did. And so, he took a small leap of faith – because he'd stopped taking leaps after she hurt him – and he cupped her face, her cheek so warm, he knew she was blushing under all her melanin. It seemed they'd both stopped breathing until he leaned in for a kiss, and suddenly, they were inhaling one another.

Michonne's fingers instinctively found his waist, holding onto him as his lips claimed hers. It was a surprise, but one she'd been yearning for, somewhere in the back of her mind. His kisses, from the very beginning, made her feel whole, no matter how briefly. They made her feel alive, the sensation of his tongue searching for hers, his beard against her cheek; the way he drank her in. His kisses cut her open and put her back together all in the same heady breath. She returned the kiss, sucking on his lips as he pulled her closer, his left hand squeezing her backside the way he always did. She smiled. There were those butterflies again – they'd replaced the ache.

As Michonne's back pressed against the counter and Rick against her, she could feel him untucking her shirt, his cool hands on her hot skin, wrapping around her waist, and she nearly melted. Nearly. But her brain took over for her heart, recognizing what they were doing – what  _she_  was doing, abandoning what little resolve she did have about this situation – and pulled out of their liplock. "What's happening," she said breathlessly, her lips tingling thanks to his. She lowered her head, trying not to look at him, because if she did, she'd fall right back in.

His hand still clinging to her face, Rick rested his head over hers. It was wrong, he knew, after what she'd asked of him, but he couldn't keep spending these evenings with her, pretending he wasn't losing his mind with every passing second that he couldn't touch her. He'd tried. He invited her up with the intention of genuinely trying to kindle a friendship. But it felt more like they were getting a divorce when he didn't even get to be married to her. "I don't wanna be your friend," he whispered, exhaling quietly once the words were out.

Michonne closed her eyes, allowing his scent to take over her. He smelled of scallions and sawdust and she had to hold back tears. "I don't either," she admitted in an even softer whisper, her fingers on his shirt, holding onto him, as if she was scared he'd slip away if she didn't. "But I don't wanna ruin this again." She sighed and the tears began to fall in streams down her cheeks.

"You won't," he said. "We won't."

"You don't know that," she sniffled. "I constantly feel like I'm one bad day away from destroying everything in my life. I know you don't know what that feels like, because you're perfect," she smiled sadly. She knew that wasn't necessarily true, but it often felt like he was. "But it weighs on me every time we've been together since…"

Rick nodded against her gently. He  _didn't_  know what that felt like, didn't have those demons, but he certainly understood being scared. "So then… what happens?" he wondered, his voice hoarse from the lump in his throat – probably full of all the things he wasn't saying.

"I don't know," Michonne admitted. "I thought friendship was the compromise, but maybe it's wrong of me to try to hold onto you. Maybe… maybe we need space." She swallowed hard, and she could hear Lucille in her head, screaming at her.  _Don't do this_. But she could see Dr. Garvey applauding her.  _Good job. Set boundaries when you need to._ It was a classic head versus heart battle – the healthy choice or the one that makes you happy. "I don't know," she repeated. She disentangled herself from his arms and suddenly, the room felt very cold.

Rick bit the inside of his cheek as he could hear Carl upstairs scurrying around. He waited until he settled before speaking again, her words ringing in his ears. "Space," he smirked sadly. They'd had space for almost four months now. How much could she need? "Negan, Sasha. Now me. You just… discard people, I guess."

Michonne swallowed visibly, her tears seeming endless. She wanted to believe he thought more of her than that, but then, she hadn't given him much more to go on. "That's fair," she nodded as she wiped her chin of her tears. "I'm sure that's what it seems like." She looked around the half-clean kitchen, remembering the joy she felt the first time she was there with him. The two of them dancing to Ella and Louis. Now it felt like the walls were crashing down around them. "I should go," she submitted, knowing she couldn't sleep there now. She probably wouldn't sleep at all.

"Michonne—"

"Thank you," she said pointedly, but sincerely, wanting him to know that she wasn't looking for a fight. "Today was the best day I've had in a while. I mean, you and Carl… you brought me back," she said, nodding slowly, as if she'd just realized it herself. "And I don't know where we go from here," she said again, still trying to grasp the concept for herself. "But I could never  _discard_  you." She turned to leave before any more tears could fall; before either of them could say or do something they might regret. She really should've just eaten her food and gone.

* * *

A week later, Rick and Michonne had gone back to their separate lives — temporarily, at least. They'd exchanged a few meaningless texts, as it was clear neither of them were ready to throw in the towel, but Rick being on the west coast for a few days gave them a good excuse to put everything on hold. To give themselves space.

And when he returned, he had a laundry list of things to catch up on, including meeting with his realtor one more time, as Lori and Shane had finally moved out of his house, and the new owners would be in by Memorial Day.

It was a hot, sunny Friday as Rick trudged up the driveway to his old abode, squinting at the place as he got closer. The first home he'd ever owned. It felt small, maybe compared to what he could afford now. It was hard to believe he shared this place with Lori; all the while believing they were going to spend forever together, even knowing she didn't love him as much as he did her. He was always so intense. In hindsight, he could see how that could be overwhelming. Not that it gave Lori license to cheat on him, but for someone like Michonne, he understood why she was apprehensive.

Just as he made it to the front door, the sound of a car pulling up turned him around. He expected it to be the realtor, Madison, but instead, it was Lori – speak of the devil – approaching in Shane's car. Rick let out a heavy sigh, steeling himself for their inevitable tension, but he painted on a pleasant face and went to greet her. "Hey. What are you doing here," he wondered, holding her hand as she stepped out of the SUV in all her 8-month-pregnant glory. She looked like she'd swallowed a watermelon whole.

Lori rolled her eyes at her own mistake before revealing what it was. "I packed a box full of Carl's old baby toys, but they're not at the new house, so I was hoping we left them here."

"You could've just called, you know," Rick said, escorting her up the short incline to the door. "I could've brought 'em by Sunday."

"I didn't even know you were gonna be here," she said, wiping the sweat that had already formed on her brow as she watched him unlock the door. "Why  _are_  you here?"

"Madison's on her way," he said. "Handin' over the keys today."

She nodded at his answer, too uncomfortable in her condition to feel sentimental about it all. "How was Seattle?"

"Wet," he said, letting her in ahead of him. He followed her inside, the two of them finding the empty home stuffy after just a few days without the air on.

"Jesus," Lori frowned at the nuisance of it all. "It's warmer in here than outside."

"You stay here," Rick offered, directing her to stand in the open doorway. "I'll go look for the toys."

She didn't have it in her to argue, so she nodded for him to go ahead, hoping for a breeze to blow through the foyer while Rick went off to look for the mysterious box. He started with the closets at the front of the house and worked his way back, recalling so many big and little moments in that place – moving in with the few pieces of furniture they had from their apartment; Carl's first big boy bed; him learning to read, and then his first day of school; their parents all coming into town when he graduated kindergarten, staying in their new home for the first time; the way Carl would go sit in their closet and draw his comic books for hours – he called it his studio. Rick smiled thinking about it all. And his smile fell when he started to remember the bad times – the fights and lack thereof, the silences, the dearth of anything resembling passion. It had been a long time since he called this place home, but it still gave him a strange wistfulness to be officially closing this chapter of his life.

Rick eventually found the box in question in Carl's old bathroom. One of those last minute things that got left behind, he guessed. Most of the toys would go to Lori and Shane's new baby now. Judith. Strangely enough, it didn't bother him anymore. He even chuckled to himself before heading back out to the front of the house, where Lori had made her way to the kitchen. She was leaning against the counter for support. "Are you all right?" he smirked.

"I'm miserable, but it's fine," she sighed. She lifted herself from the counter to see he'd found what she was looking for. "You're a lifesaver," she added thankfully.

"It's nothin'," he said. He came to join her, setting the box on the counter between them. "How much longer do you have?"

"Three more weeks," she exhaled again. "She's due the twenty-fifth."

He nodded, but his thoughts shifted to Michonne, knowing she had to deliver her son around this time in her pregnancy. "Well… I can't imagine what it must be like, but you're handling it like a champ."

"I'm just glad I don't have to go through the whole summer like this," she said, shaking her head. "I wouldn't make it."

"I'm sure you'd be fine," he offered kindly, leaving the two of them gazing at one another for longer than they had in years now. A rare moment of warmth between the exes, which only made way to awkwardness when it went on too long.

"Well," Lori was the first to say. "I should get outta here. It'll be time to pick up Carl soon."

"Right," Rick nodded back, glancing at his watch. Carl had been enjoying the new house all week, making for a good distraction from Michonne, which Rick was thankful for. If Carl asked about her while they were in this strange limbo, he would have to lie, and Rick hated lying to his son. "I'll see you Sunday then," he told Lori. He started to pick up the box to walk it to her car, but she stopped him.

"Also," she said carefully, worried already about how he'd respond, "...I know this isn't really my place, but I've been wantin' to mention this for a while now. And since Carl was with her last week, I thought maybe you had worked something out, but you still seem… sad," she acknowledged. "And I don't really know  _what_  happened, but I know you were happy with Michonne."

He sighed.  _Here we go_ , he thought. "Lori…"

"I'm not - I don't mean to be intrusive," she said. "I just want to say – to  _remind_  you, I guess – not to let what I did ruin what you could have with someone else."

Rick chuckled in disbelief at her lecturing him. After everything she'd done. "Believe it or not, everything isn't about you, you know."

Lori smiled tensely, rubbing her belly as she tried to find the words that would get her point across. She knew, coming from her, he would already be on the defensive. "I know," she nodded. "This has nothing to do with me, really. Except that it's you. And I know hurt – the kind of hurt that I put on you – it doesn't just disappear. It festers. It makes us scared to try again. And I know you, Rick," she said softly. "You wouldn't have let her meet Carl if it wasn't real to you. So whatever it is, I don't know if you got cold feet or what, but… if it's something fixable, I do hope you try to fix it."

He nodded again and he could feel his eyes beginning to water. She'd struck a nerve and he didn't know what to say. In part because he just didn't want to share his feelings with Lori, but he also just wished he could take her advice and go live happily ever after like she somehow managed to do. But how do you fix bad timing? How can you make someone ready to be in a relationship? You can't. "Thank you for the advice," he replied quietly.

He picked up the box and gestured for her to go ahead of him, patiently following behind as she waddled her way out to the car. He set the toys in her trunk, helped her back inside the vehicle, and waved her off, all while thinking about what she'd said. He never fought for Lori. One of the low points of their relationship was her pointing that out. He could've. Even after she cheated on him. It would've been a terrible idea for them to stay together, but he never even tried.

And then, when things fell apart between him and Michonne, he did get scared. She came back, and for that one weekend, it was good, but it wasn't the same. Because he wasn't the same. He was so worried he'd broken her by not being gentle enough or patient enough, he forgot to be himself. He forgot that she liked when he was honest. He'd pushed Michonne from day one because he saw someone worth fighting for. He saw a woman he wanted to be with – strong and smart and caring and trying so desperately to be better than her despair. But when she came back, all new and improved, he stopped saying what he wanted, and now, here they were.

He didn't know whether it was fixable, he really didn't. Maybe they were incompatible now that Michonne didn't  _need_  him. But after that kiss, he sure as hell didn't question whether she wanted him. So why was he pushing her away?

As he headed back inside to wait for Madison, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and decided to text her something meaningful. Not necessarily a push, but an opening. Maybe this was his version of a different street.

**Friday 2:14 PM**   
_I shouldn't have said what I said._  
_About you discarding people. You_  
_were good to me, and especially to_  
_Carl. Even when you weren't at your  
_ _best._

_If we're meant to be together, we'll  
_ _figure it out. I'm not in a rush._

* * *

Back on the eastern coast of Tennessee, Michonne was just finishing up her own errands, including a pit stop at Food City on her way home. Glenn and Rosita were coming to visit for the weekend, and she wanted to get things done before they arrived.

She was scouring the intimate care aisle of the store when her phone buzzed more than once in her back pocket. She just knew it would be Glenn, informing her they were running late; but instead, it was a pair of texts from Rick that managed to instantly put her at so much ease in so few words. A hint of a smile even tugged at her lips as she stood there staring at the messages for too long. She believed him when he said they could figure it out. She wanted to call him, even though she hadn't a clue as to what she'd say. She just wanted, and maybe needed, to hear his voice.

But first, she forced herself to find what she was looking for. She'd been in this store so many times to purchase condoms, it was a bit of harsh irony that she needed this at all. But alas. Michonne picked up a pregnancy test, and then another, and then one more, just so she'd be sure. And with a heavy sigh and a silent prayer, she headed for the front of the store.


	19. The Only Exception

Michonne exhaled a long, tense breath through her lips as she waited for Dr. Garvey to come take her seat. It had been a few weeks since they'd seen each other – the doctor had gone on vacation to visit her daughter and newborn granddaughter – and even longer since they'd been together in person, and Michonne found herself a bit nervous because of it. She worried the rapport they'd established would be affected by their time apart. Because even their Skype sessions, the last of which were in April, seemed to strike a different tone; so unlike being there  _in_  the office. Back under the microscope.

"It's good to see you," Dr. Garvey declared, her tone chipper as she took her seat in front of her patient. "You look wonderful."

Michonne smiled wide, appreciative of the compliment. She'd gone back to putting effort into her appearance, and it always buoyed her when people noticed; it was also amusing that it seemed to surprise those who only knew her post-Anthony. "Thank you, thank you," she said, nodding. "How was your trip?" she asked.

"Entirely too short," she offered simply, as she was always careful not to get too personal with patients. Even when she wanted to show off her new granddaughter to anyone willing to look. "But what brings you into town?" she wondered, already shifting gears. "I didn't think I'd see you in person for quite a while."

"Well..." Michonne sighed, already dubious of the feedback she'd receive from her doctor, "Sasha's wedding is this weekend. And... I've been thinking about it a lot, and I've decided that… I'm going to go."

Dr. Garvey raised a surprised eyebrow. "That's interesting," she said, sitting back in her chair. "Did you see Meghan Markle's wedding and decide to go to one?" she asked kiddingly.

Michonne laughed heartily at the unexpected humor. Though as they'd grown closer, they did tend to joke with each other a bit more. "That certainly didn't hurt," she retorted. "What a wedding."

"What a wedding," the doctor repeated in agreement, shaking her head. "But in all seriousness, what happened to change your mind?" she said. "When you got the invite, you seemed pretty resolute about not attending."

"I know," she nodded. "Though at the time, I think the emotions were still pretty raw, so I don't know how honest I was being with myself."

"Mm. Say more."

"I mean, I've been fine without her," Michonne added decisively. "I don't feel the need to be her friend or anything like that. This isn't an, 'I miss you' type of thing," she explained. "But I was with her fiancée a few weeks ago, because  _we're_  still friends, and she told me how much it would mean to Sasha if I were there. So I thought about it and ended up saying to myself, 'Sure. That's a nice thing I can do for her.'"

"So you're still making a habit of doing things for other people people?" Dr. Garvey suggested.

"It's not that," she replied, her tone remaining assertive. "It's a small thing - it won't cost me a lot of time or money, and it would mean something to her." She stared at her therapist, waiting for her to validate that choice, but knew that was a futile endeavor. "I'm working on doing the things I want and feel ready to do," she nodded again. "I just… I don't  _mind_  doing this. It took her a long time to find someone she felt like settling down with. That, after eighteen years of friendship, deserves celebrating. Even if we're not necessarily friends anymore."

"Okay," the doctor returned with a nod of endorsement, jotting down a few notes already.

"Plus, as Glenn pointed out, all our friends will be there. And it could be nice to reconnect since I'm not in town anymore."

"Does that mean Negan will be there?" Dr. Garvey asked.

Michonne's eyes went wide, as she'd never even considered the possibility. And it certainly was possible, given that he and Sasha had become friends over the past year. "I don't know," she admitted with an awkward smile. "I wouldn't think so? But I also - I hadn't thought about it. He could be."

"So now that you are thinking about it, are you prepared for that if it does come to pass?"

She paused before answering, contemplating her last interaction with Negan and whether it could disrupt Sasha and Rosita's wedding if they did cross paths. Things ended on a somber note, but not necessarily a bad one. Nothing that made her think they couldn't be civil. If she could make it out of that New Year's party alive, certainly, she could handle this. "I am," Michonne decided. "It feels like you think I shouldn't do this," she said with a chuckle.

"That's not what I think," Dr. Garvey said evenly. "I just want to make sure you've thought through all the possible outcomes of it. While you've been very unsure about Rick, it felt as though you were firm in your feelings about your relationship with Sasha."

"I am," she nodded. "That's why I'm able to do this."

"Okay," she smiled back at her. "Good."

Michonne relaxed a bit then, glad to finally get that news off of her chest. She'd worried about disappointing her with this decision, and all of her decisions, even as Dr. Garvey had never expressed anything of the sort. Still, it weighed on her before every session. She'd been in therapy for not even four months now, and she could tell she was gaining more confidence in her choices, slowly but surely; but she looked forward to the day she stopped being so concerned with what anyone else thought of them. Even her therapist.

"So. What's on your mind today?" Dr. Garvey posed as she finished her notes on the previous subject. "I know it's been a while."

"So many things," Michonne submitted with another heavy sigh, meant to be more dramatic than she actually felt. "I guess, at the top of the list… I had a bit of a pregnancy scare?" Her intonation made it sound like a question, because she wasn't sure that 'scare' was the right word to describe it.

Dr. Garvey was visibly taken aback by that news. She uncrossed her legs and sat forward in her chair. "I picked the wrong time to take a vacation, I see."

"It's fine," she chuckled quietly. "I mean, at the time, I was… terrified. But I got through it."

She nodded in relief. "So you aren't pregnant?" she asked to confirm. "I assume this was with Rick…"

Michonne nodded. "That last time we were together, back in March, we didn't use protection," she revealed. "I took the Morning After pill, and I'm sure it just obliterated my cycle. But I got pretty worried when I didn't have a period for seven weeks." She shook her head at the whole ordeal. "But the tests were negative. Nothing."

"I can imagine that was pretty harrowing for you," Dr. Garvey said. "Even thinking that was what was happening."

"Briefly," she said. "When I realized it was possible, there was this overwhelming sense of fear, just sitting in the pit of my stomach. I knew that pill had a pretty high rate of effectiveness, but you know, anything's possible. For a day or so, I convinced myself I was being crazy, but I decided to go get a test, just to put myself out of my misery, one way or another." She paused to swallow as she spoke, recalling that fateful day. "But then, when I actually took the test, I don't know. I was kind of hoping it would be positive," she confessed, gazing at her doctor, wondering whether she could make sense of it all. Because Michonne sure couldn't. "Isn't that funny?" she said. "All this time, I've been actively avoiding this thing. Refusing to confront another pregnancy. And in the moment of truth, I  _wanted_  it."

The doctor nodded back, understanding how that could be confusing for her when, for an entire year, she'd been so consumed by the loss of her son. "That tends to happen when you've made your peace with something."

Michonne nodded, too. "When the hell did that happen," she smirked.

"Did you tell Rick about this?" she asked.

"I did," Michonne said, biting nervously at her bottom lip, still unsure that she should've. "I told him before I even took the test."

* * *

_**Three weeks ago.** _

" _Are you gonna be okay if it's positive?" Rick questioned, worried. "I feel like I should drive out there or somethin'."_

" _No, no, it's fine," Michonne replied softly. "Glenn will be here soon, so I won't be alone."_

_He nodded to himself, relieved to hear it. Even if she wanted him to come, he was four hours away, which wouldn't be of much help in the immediate aftermath. "We still gotta get him and Maggie together," he reminded her, attempting to keep her distracted until they got a result._

_Michonne laughed, hearing the smile in Rick's voice. She let down the lid of the toilet and took a seat on top of it while they waited. "We can't even get ourselves together," she joked._

" _Ah, I'm not worried about us," he said coolly._

_"Is that so?" she asked, inwardly wondering what had so suddenly changed; what made him send that apology, and why the urgency was gone from his voice. A week ago, he was making her feel like shit for thinking she wasn't was ready for a relationship. What happened to make him understand?_

" _I meant what I said," Rick told her seriously – referring to the texts he'd sent just a few minutes prior. "This doesn't change that."_

_Michonne tried to keep her face from contorting into happy, appreciative tears, but failed. She nodded as if he could see her, and brushed a fallen tear from her cheek. "That makes me really happy to hear," she said, clutching the phone in her hand as if it were some part of him. "Because I didn't wanna ask you to wait."_

" _I know," he said._

_Michonne exhaled gently and shakily. She couldn't believe they might have to deal with a pregnancy, just when it felt like they were getting somewhere safe. "If this is a baby, you wanna keep it. Right?" she asked him in a whisper._

_Rick was cautious with his answer, but he was honest. As always. "I do," he said. "Do you?"_

_She nodded again, surprised by her own answer before it came out of her mouth. "I think I do," she said. And it wasn't that she would keep this child if it existed, but rather, she_ hoped _for it. She could already picture Carl with his new little half-siblings, being the best big brother possible. She_ wanted _this._

" _I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't expectin' that answer," he said with a low chuckle._

" _Me neither," she replied. And with a sharp inhale, she picked herself up and went to the counter to check on the tests. She stared at the results window of the first, seeing that only one line had materialized and her stomach dropped. She waited another minute, neither of them saying anything at all as the seconds passed, hoping for another line, no matter how faint. But nothing would appear. "It's negative," she said out loud, quietly exhaling her disappointment along with it. She held it up to the light to be sure. Nothing._

" _Oh," Rick said in response. "Really?"_

" _Yeah." She glanced at the second test she'd administered – some cheap brand she didn't trust as much, and it was also negative. "Yeah," she repeated flatly._

" _Well…"_

" _I guess... that's that," she said. She dropped the first stick to the counter and leaned against the nearest wall, wishing it were Rick. They weren't expecting this – she'd done everything in her power to circumvent it, in fact – how disappointed was she allowed to be?_

" _We avoided a disaster," Rick offered. He wasn't sure why they were so suddenly deflated. This should've been good news. But he could tell she felt the same way he did._

_They both went silent for a long time, the two of them processing the news of losing some thing they didn't even know they wanted. Another layer added to all their other shit._

" _Shit, my realtor is here," Rick said suddenly. After Michonne called him, he completely forgot where he was and what he was doing. "I gotta go."_

" _Okay," Michonne said, her eyes burning with tears again. "Thank you for doing this with me."_

" _I'm glad you called," he sent back._

" _We can talk later if you want," she offered quietly. She knew he probably had a lot of feelings wrapped up in this, too. Lori would undoubtedly be giving birth soon – that couldn't be easy on him. "Later tonight?"_

" _I um… I think I might need a little time," he said with a sigh. "Just to sit with this."_

"Oh. Y _eah, of course," she agreed. "I get it."_

" _I'll call you soon," he said. And then he was gone._

* * *

"And what did he have to say about it?" Dr. Garvey wondered.

"Not a lot," Michonne said, shrugging. "It was over the phone, so I couldn't  _really_  tell how he felt about it. I couldn't see what was on his face. But… that was the last time we spoke, so maybe that's my answer," she said.

"You think he's upset?"

"I think 'disappointed' would be the word," she answered, nodding. "It was a shock to the system, when were just barely getting back on track. It threw us both for a loop."

"Have you reached out to him?" she asked.

Michonne shook her head. "We had a whole thing after my day with Carl, and then this happened, and he was so clearly disconcerted by it. I didn't wanna crowd him. You know I've been trying to keep my distance anyway."

Dr. Garvey scrawled down a reminder to ask about Michonne's 'day with Carl' when the opportunity arose. "I see you're still doing that 'me, myself, and I' routine," she smirked.

"Why do you make it sound so dismal," Michonne chuckled softly. "It's been good for me."

"You do seem very calm about it all," the doctor had to agree. "Centered..."

"Your impact," she joked, shrugging again. "But no, I don't know about that," she said, her tone earnest. "You never tell me what I'm supposed to do, so I keep trying to do what makes the most sense. And it seems to be working. I think there's something important about knowing when you need something, even if it's not what you want," she shook her head. "Rick told me he needed some time with this, and I understood that. It felt like the healthiest we'd ever been," she explained. "And I feel like that's a good sign."

"It may be," Dr. Garvey said in her usual composed timbre.

Michonne laughed to herself, shaking her head at her therapist's reply. Or the lack thereof. "You're always so indiscernible when I talk about Rick."

Dr. Garvey smiled at her observation. "That bothers you?"

"Yes! I'm flailing here."

"You're not," she assured her, still cool as ever. "You're not. And indeed, it's not my job to tell you what to do," she said. "Anthony, Negan, even your parents, to a certain degree. Those are all parts of your past, and when you walked in here, you needed help navigating away from them. You've gotten those tools now," she said. "Your response to the possibility of being with child is testament that you're using them effectively." She smiled at her patient again, hoping her words were soothing to her. "As for Rick, if he's going to be part of your future, I want you to get there on your own, Michonne."

"That sounds like a ploy to make me keep paying you," Michonne replied, only half joking. "Do you at least have an opinion on him?"

"I do," she confirmed with another grin. "I have a lot of opinions on all my patients' lives. That's human nature. But that's not going to help you, is it?"

"I know. You're right," Michonne relented. She already knew what she wanted, so hearing someone else's point of view wouldn't  _really_  help. She just wanted to know that her doctor liked him. That she thought he was good for her. "I'm just so curious," she said.

"I will tell you something that I think you should hear. Something I've wanted you to come around to understanding without me saying it outright," Dr. Garvey intimated. "But sometimes, abstract lessons don't work, and we just need to hear things straight up. This journey you're on," she professed, looking straight into Michonne's eyes, "it should be about striving for progress; not perfection. You don't have to be completed to be happy."

* * *

 _Mr. and Mrs. Matías Rojas Montilla_  
_and Mr. and Mrs. Tyrone Williams_  
_request the pleasure of your company_  
_as their daughters_  
_Rosita Elena Montilla Espinosa_  
_and Sasha Nicole Williams_  
_exchange vows and begin their new life together_  
_Saturday, the twenty-sixth of May_  
_at five o'clock in the afternoon_  
_Mason Fine Art Gallery_  
_415 Plasters Avenue  
_ _Atlanta, Georgia_

Memorial Day weekend had arrived, and the Williams-Espinosa wedding was all set to take place. The venue the ladies selected was a contemporary art gallery nestled in the heart of Atlanta, between Buckhead and Midtown. Michonne had arrived earlier than she wanted to, thinking the traffic in the city might catch her otherwise, and so, she decided to head inside to say hello to Sasha, if possible. The inside of the place was unsurprisingly beautiful – Sasha did always have a lovely, unique taste, in people and in things. The gallery was a huge industrial space that had been decorated to look whimsical. White chairs and white lights filled the room – the reception area was especially ethereal with its hanging clear bulbs, accentuated with ivy. Rows of long tables, lavishly adorned with the most beautiful blue orchids over white tablecloths, sat just beyond the dance floor. The place was exquisite, and the art in the background only magnified the magic of it all. One wall in particular had an exhibit comprised of different fabrics, made to look like a cliff overlooking a waterfall. It was gorgeous, and Michonne was genuinely excited to watch Sasha get married in this space.

She continued through the gallery until she found the dressing area, which was full of people running around frantically – hairdressers and makeup artists and bridesmaids galore. Michonne spotted Sasha's brother, Tyreese, on his phone and started to approach, but he'd been pulled in another direction before she could get there. She reconsidered bothering Sasha when they clearly had so much going on. She turned on her heel, ready slip back out to the main area where all the other guests were mingling and perusing the art, but then, she got caught before she could leave.

"Michonne," Glenn called out to her. He said it as if he knew she was trying to get away.

She turned back to him, waving when he continued out of the room he'd been occupying. He had his camera in hand, and she realized he'd probably just gotten some shots of the brides getting ready. "Hey," she greeted him with a big, nervous smile.

"You look  _amazing_ ," he said, offering her a quick kiss to her cheek before getting another look at her. "Wow."

And indeed, she did. She wore a long, flowy strapless yellow dress, flawless against her glowing dark skin, while her blue eye makeup and heels made for a superb complement to the bright color. Half her locs were fashioned into a halo braid with gold thread weaved throughout, while the rest of it cascaded down her back in waves. It was the most effort she'd put into her dress in nearly two years now, and it showed.

"Thank you," she nodded, grinning proudly. "You do, too." Glenn, who was so effortlessly cool, and probably came out of the womb that way, always could wear a suit. He was one of few men who really knew how to wear cropped pants. And no facial hair. A feat.

"I'm really glad you came," he said, noticing his assistant had just come out of Rosita's room. He gave her a quick thumbs up before returning his attention to Michonne. "Sasha's gonna be stoked to see you."

Michonne smiled again, though it was more tense than the last. "Is she in there?" she asked, pointing to the room Glenn had just come out of.

"Yep," he nodded. "She was trying to eat a little something before they do her lip makeup."

She chuckled at his use of the term 'lip makeup' but nodded, readying herself to go in.

"I gotta go talk to Rosi," he said, before correcting himself, "I mean, take some pictures." He held up his camera to emphasize the point. "But I'll see you out there."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Do your thing," Michonne said, watching him as he headed off. It was a relief to have someone there that she'd talked to regularly in the past nine months. With that as her only safety net, she went to knock on Sasha's door and patiently waited to be let in.

It was a matter of seconds before their friend Jessie opened the door and practically gasped at the sight of Michonne Godard standing in front of her. "Oh my god, I didn't think you were coming," she squealed, pulling her into a hug. "Hi!"

"Hi!" Michonne chuckled back, surprised by the warm welcome. She offered her a double cheek kiss and then wiped her raspberry-colored lipstick from her face as they separated. "It's so good to see you."

Jessie nodded. "Yeah, I didn't think we'd see you until  _my_  wedding," she teased, referring to the blessed event taking place over a year later. "I'm really glad you're here."

Michonne squeezed her hand as Sasha peeked out from the vanity she'd been sitting in front of. "I am, too," she told Jessie.

"I was just going next door to steal some tampons, but we have to catch up," she told Michonne. "After we take pictures, I'm gonna find you."

"Okay," she chuckled, almost touched by her enthusiasm. As Jessie continued out of the room, Michonne went further in, where Sasha was removing her makeup cape and frantically swallowing the last of her protein bar. It was Michonne's turn to gasp when she got a full view of the bride, looking absolutely stunning in her wedding attire. She was dressed in a fitted navy blue tux, accented with the most beautiful multicolored pumps, made up of pinks, oranges, purples, and a hint of blue to set off her suit. Her natural hair was pulled into big twists made to look like an elegant mohawk. And her makeup was soft – gold lids and pinkish cheeks. She was a sight to behold. Michonne nearly teared up when she saw her.

"I just knew you weren't coming," Sasha grinned as she set down her cape and went in for a hug. A long, tight hug, meant to say just how much she'd missed her. "You look so great," she said into her ear.

"You do," Michonne replied, giving her a quick squeeze. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she added as people she didn't know began to scurry out. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, and that I'm happy for you. And… best wishes."

Sasha nodded, knowing Rosita had asked her and thought it was unlikely she'd oblige. So she really appreciated the gesture. "You really didn't have to come all this way," she said, shaking her head. "I know you're in Tennessee full time now."

"I wanted to," she shrugged.

"Is Rick with you?" she wondered, looking to the door as if he'd be right behind it. "I'd love to meet him before everything gets crazy."

"Oh, no, that's not - he's not… coming," Michonne stuttered, realizing that Glenn obviously hadn't filled in Sasha on any of the goings on in her life. "It's just me."

"Oh." Sasha gave her a strange look, but knew it was possible she'd simply missed something. "Well. I'm glad  _you're_  here," she said. "I've missed you."

Michonne replied with another strained smile. "It's been a lot of change," she acknowledged. "I'm so glad you found someone to spend your life with."

"God knows I didn't think this day would ever come," Sasha nodded, chuckling. "I got really lucky."

"You did," she grinned.

"I wish I hadn't lost my best friend in the process," Sasha went on, looking Michonne in the eye intently. "This isn't how I wanted things."

Michonne averted her gaze, looking down at the floor as she tried to come up with something to say. She'd come to the wedding because she thought it was the kind thing to do. And she genuinely wanted to celebrate this love – something that wasn't even legally recognized just five years ago. This was a big deal. But she wasn't there for reconciliation, and didn't want Sasha to think she was opening the door for it. "And now you know that," she said said simply; gently. Not exactly closing the door either. She offered her ex-friend another hug, affectionately rubbing her back before pulling away, and she then headed back out to the party.

* * *

"Is this seat taken?"

Michonne turned to the voice requesting to sit beside her, prepared to tell its owner that the seat belonged to her friend, despite him being so busy taking pictures the last two hours, he'd yet to actually sit down. But she lost her train of thought, along with her breath, when she turned to find Rick staring back at her. She hadn't recognized his voice over the music, and barely recognized him, looking positively dapper in a crisp black suit and tie. She was speechless, her dropped jaw slowly morphing into a smile as her heart raced to the beat of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." "What are you doing here?" she finally managed to ask.

Rick smirked as he unfastened his jacket and took the seat that he knew belonged to Glenn. "I was invited."

"By whom," she wondered, still staring at him in a mixture of awe and confusion.

He was relieved that she wasn't angry. He knew, after what Sasha did with Negan, there was a chance this could go badly. Even with the understanding that she had very different feelings for him than she did for her ex. But he'd been assured that this would make her happy, and it seemed, even in her bewilderment, that it was true. "What'd I miss?" he asked, plainly ignoring her question.

She narrowed her eyes at him, seeing that he wasn't going to make this easy. She looked around the room in search of Glenn – he seemed like the most likely culprit. But perhaps it was at Rosita's request, returning the favor since Michonne did decide to come. She didn't care, though. She was just happy to see him. "You haven't missed anything," she promised, drinking him in like he was the cocktail sitting in front of her.

He gazed back at her, the two of them holding an entire conversation with just their twinkling eyes, their stares saying far more than words ever could. Their silent exchange was loud and intimate and it made Michonne smile until she was on the edge of laughter. She was just about to speak – to ask Rick if he wanted to go dance – when the past came back to haunt them. Though they were so entranced with one another, they hadn't noticed Negan approach, forcing him to clear his throat just to get their attention. Michonne's face fell when she noticed him, feeling like she'd just been woken up from a dream.

"Sorry to intrude," Negan said, smiling politely at the stranger that had stolen his fiancée. "Hi."

Rick stood to offer the man a handshake, recognizing him from pictures as Michonne's former fiancé. He was taller in person than expected. But also thinner. Not quite as impressive as Rick had made him out to be in his imagination. "Hey," he greeted him. "I'm Rick."

"Negan," he returned, also sizing up the other man. He didn't know what to expect of a guy named Rick, but it sure as hell wasn't this. He was short. He had a big nose. And his hair was too long. And Michonne loved him. "She used to smile at me like that," he said kiddingly, referring to his ex.

Michonne stood from her seat then, to greet Negan with a clumsy hug from across the table. "How are you?" she asked.

"I'm all right," he nodded slowly. "Not as good as you, obviously," he added, alluding to how great she looked.

"It's complicated," she shrugged, assuming it was a reference to Rick being there with her. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"I wasn't sure I'd be here either," he admitted. "For all intents and purposes, these are your people."

"You became friends too," she offered, reminded of his budding friendship with Sasha while she was gone. She'd seen his friend Simon earlier, during the cocktail reception, with his wife. They were all one big, intertwined group at that point. "I don't know..."

Rick watched the exchange between the exes, finding it hard to imagine the two of them in a relationship together. They made sense aesthetically, perhaps, but he could tell they weren't a match. Not now. All this time he spent being worried about this guy and in the span of a minute in his presence, he could see why Michonne left.

"Well, I just wanted to say hello," Negan went on. "Figured there was no point in me pretending I didn't see you here."

Michonne nodded. "I appreciate it."

"I know our ending wasn't what I wanted for us, but I do hope you get everything you want," he said. "You deserve that."

Michonne cocked her head, stunned by his sweet, earnest words. "Thank you," she grinned at him gratefully; though she didn't know what else to say that wouldn't sound condescending."I don't know where I'd be if you hadn't helped me find therapy. I'm forever indebted to you and your kindness."

"Well that oughta keep me warm at night," he joked with that smile of his.

In the background, Rick noticed the brides taking their place in the middle of the room, seemingly for some kind of announcement, and he was thankful the awkward moment would have to come to a quick end. "I think they're about to talk," Rick inserted, pointing to the stage, just as the music stopped.

"Oh shit, yeah," Negan said. He bid them adieu as Rick and Michonne reclaimed their seats, and he quickly grabbed an empty spot at their table, just a few chairs away from Michonne, as the brides received their mics.

Sasha let out a heavy sigh as she stood in the middle of a crowded room, observing all the people she called family and friends. She was nervous, and for no good reason, as she knew most of these people quite well. And they'd already gotten through the ceremony and bared their souls in front of everyone. This should've been the easy part. But public speaking – and certainly on the topic of something she knew nothing about: love – wasn't exactly one of her strong suits. But Rosita took her hand, and the nerves fell away. And that was love in a nutshell, wasn't it?

" _Shit_ , we really did this," Sasha declared to the sound of guests' laughter – she said it as if she'd just realized it for herself. "When I woke up this morning, I was… terrified that I wouldn't be able to make it down that aisle. Not that I've ever necessarily been scared of commitment, as many in this room can attest," she chuckled, "but... I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Committed to a lot of women who either weren't ready for me, or I wasn't ready for them. You know, who hasn't gone through a relationship – or ten – thinking you're madly in love with someone, only to realize, after the shine wears off, you're not even sure you  _like_  them?" She smiled as the audience laughed.

"This better be going somewhere good," Rosita interjected with a laugh; though in truth, she really had no idea what was going on.

"It is," Sasha promised. "I got you, baby."

"All right..."

"So yeah," she went on. "I woke up this morning thinking, 'What if... I'm making another mistake? What if I'm wrong?' And it  _paralyzed_  me. Knowing that I could ruin this woman's life if I let this happen. 'Some say we are responsible for those we love. Others know,  _we_  are responsible for those who love  _us_.'"

Michonne smirked at Sasha's use of a Nikki Giovanni quote, as it followed suit with her very simple vows in the ceremony – " _Just me. Just you. Just love."_  She was Sasha's favorite writer, her idol in many ways, and so, it was touching to see her invoke her and her words on one of the most meaningful days of her life. She glanced at Rick as Sasha spoke, her words feeling especially potent in the moment. Because she did worry about hurting him. Again.

"But," Sasha went on, "as I made it through the day, getting all my waxes and 'cures, quietly questioning myself along the way, I thought of a quote from one of my favorite books, and it goes, ' _Love brought you here. If you trusted love this far, don't panic now_.'" She shook her head. "It's really that simple, isn't it? We make these things hard because we think they're supposed to be. Because if it comes easy, it doesn't feel earned. So we make it impossible to just… let it be. The only thing we have in this great, wide, terrifying world are the connections we make. And we're willing to sever them because we're scared. Isn't that silly?"

As her words hung in the air, resonating with probably everyone who'd ever loved someone, Rick looked at Michonne, the way she seemed to be beaming with pride for her friend. Even as they'd fallen apart, he could see the emotion in her eyes as she sat there nodding ever-so-slightly at every word. He could see how they'd been friends once upon a time, and he and hoped, if she, if they, wanted it, that they could be again someday. More than that, he hoped, if she, if they, wanted it, that he and Michonne could be together again someday.

"Rosi," Sasha went on, turning to her new wife, resplendent in her ivory dress against her olive skin. She'd marry her a million times if she could. "I know our life won't be easy, but I hereby promise that our love will be."

Rosita wiped away tears as she squeezed Sasha's hand, her and planted a quick kiss on her lips. "She wasn't supposed to say all that," she told the crowd, shaking her head.

"Well you said we needed an intro," she replied, shrugging to the applauding crowd.

Rosita offered another kiss to her wife's cheek before announcing to their guests, "All that so eloquently said, each table should have a bowl full of paper," she explained with the most magnificent smile on her face. "We invite you all to share what  _you've_  learned about love. Any guidance you'd like to impart to two girls without a clue what we're doing."

Rick and Michonne locked eyes as the room filled with laughter, chatter, and an Etta James song. She looked at him with those big, questioning brown eyes that made him fall in love with her in the first place, leaving him beaming at her. Someone offered them one of the silver pens being passed around, though neither of them were actually paying attention to anything else going on in that room.

"What are you doing here?" Michonne asked, still feeling like she was dreaming, all while hoping she wasn't. She had a mind to pinch herself, but if this was, in fact, some fantasy, she wasn't ready to wake up.

"I was invited," he replied, still smirking and being purposely vague, enjoying the hell out of her perplexion. As the bowl of paper made its way to their end of the table, he took out a slip for each of them, passing one to Michonne. "What are you gonna write?" he wondered.

"I'm gonna write what I've learned," she retorted, stealing the pen from his grasp with a playful simper.

Despite her cageyness, she allowed Rick a clear view of her paper as she inscribed her note to the happy couple. He was expecting some typical platitude – don't go to bed angry; never stop dating – as most people liked to offer in these events. But she wrote, in her immaculate penmanship, something that could only come from a mathematician:  _Show your work_.

He smiled. He liked that it was something left to one's own interpretation – it probably meant a few different things to Michonne, who spent much of the last decade doing work for someone else; the last few months working on herself. And the work needed for a healthy relationship was no minor thing. "I like that," he commented, knowing she hadn't even asked his opinion.

Michonne handed the pen back to him, trying to suppress her grin. "And what pearl of wisdom do you have to impart to the newlyweds?"

Rick raised an eyebrow as he recorded his message in his own elegant handwriting – he offered them a lesson he was still learning as they spoke.  _To know when to go away and when to come closer is the key to any lasting relationship._  He folded the paper without allowing Michonne to see it and placed it in the awaiting bowl nearby, keeping his eyes on her with every move he made.

"It shouldn't, but this whole evasive, mysterious thing you're doing is really working for me," she confessed, letting her smile loose.

"Well it worked like a charm when you used it on me, so I figured I'd give it a shot," he quipped.

Michonne shook her head, still unsure what was happening here, but also not really caring at that point. He was there. And it was good. Even if it was just for the night, to save her from being alone in a room full of people she barely talked to anymore. She felt more comfortable with just him than nearly all of them combined.

 _Looking out on the morning rain_  
_I used to feel so uninspired_  
_And when I knew I had to face another day  
_ _Lord, it made me feel so tired_

As the song changed from Etta to Aretha – or at least, the wedding band's version of her – Rick looked to Michonne and stood from his seat, offering her his hand in the process. She stared at him amusedly as she tried to think of something witty to reply with, something about being on display in front of all those people, but she couldn't think of anything she wanted to say more than she wanted to dance with him. So she accepted his proffered hand and followed him to the uncrowded dance floor, situated right there amongst the guests. She let out an exhale as she settled in his embrace, his right arm wrapping around her back, pulling her close. His left hand took her right and he began to sway, taking her with him.

Michonne instantly felt at home, there in his arms, and relaxed as the dulcet piano tones guided them across the floor. She wanted to close her eyes, trusting that Rick would lead her the right way, but instead, she got lost in his. They were the perfect height for one another – she always thought so; but in her heels, they saw eye to eye. The irony wasn't lost on her. And so, she stared into those lovely blue eyes, so full of all his dueling emotions. She could tell he was content, at least in the moment, but so melancholy otherwise. Nervous and yet, so self-assured. He was being puckish, but still, he was earnest. Maybe, in essence, that was Rick Grimes.

Her eyes started to water the longer they stared, her lip involuntarily quivering, and she forced herself to look away before her feelings could swallow her whole. She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed him in.

"Are you okay?" Rick whispered, worried.

Michonne was quick to answer him, nodding against him. "Yes," she said.

_Before the day I met you, life was so unkind  
But you're the key to my peace of mind_

He relaxed with relief. Despite his air of confidence and all their silly banter, he'd taken a big risk showing up out of the blue like this. She was already a flight risk, and after the maybe pregnancy, he had no idea how she was feeling about anything. But it made him realize that he didn't want to let this relationship decay. Letting it fade into something unrecognizable – just a series of almosts. Almost together. Almost pregnant. Almost happy. "Have you gotten enough space?" he asked, his voice still low, so only she could hear him.

Michonne nodded again as a tear slipped down her perfectly made up face. "Yes," she said. It was almost too much. "I was worried, when we weren't pregnant, that it scared you away."

' _Cause you make me feel  
__You make me feel_

"No," he promised, pulling her closer; his fingertips touching her back felt like they were on fire, while the ends of her hair tickled his hand. "I just didn't wanna scare you away."

"You didn't," she said.

He smiled to himself as they continued to sway in semicircles, ignoring anyone else that had followed them to the floor. As far as they knew, they were the only two people in the room. "What did you think when you saw me?" he asked.

_You make me feel like a natural woman_

"I thought I'd missed you so much, I was imagining things," she admitted, thankful to know she wasn't – that this was real.

Rick could hear the smile in her voice and then she looked up at him, allowing him to see it. He'd driven nearly 300 miles in Memorial Day weekend traffic for exactly this. "When I saw you," he said, "I thought to myself, 'There it is. The most beautiful smile in the world.'"

Michonne had to stop herself from bursting into pure sobs. Still so confused about how she could possibly deserve this man. After all her crazy and uncertainty, here he was, still wanting her.

 _When my soul was in the lost and found_  
_You came along to claim it_  
 _I didn't know just what was wrong with me_  
 _'Til your kiss helped me name it_

She went back to his shoulder, her comfortable place, and even though they were spinning, it felt as though the world had stopped for the two of them. Safe in his arms, she felt what she would often feel with him:  _a self-affection. He made her like herself. With him, she was at ease: her skin felt as though it was her right size_.

She could feel his heart beating against her cheek and she did close her eyes, imagining it beating for her. "What are you doing here?" she whispered through her tears – happy tears – for the third and final time.

Rick's lips twitched with the hint of a smile and he rested his head over hers. "Michonne, I'm chasing you," he said to the tune of her favorite book – and it was as if he'd read her thoughts. "I'm gonna chase you until you give this a chance."

A tiny whimper fell from Michonne's mouth, as she could feel herself melting, and she was helpless to stop it. Not that she had any plans on fighting this any longer. She was done trying to make herself 'ready' for him. Because maybe she would never be. But she was doing the work and it showed. She woke up every morning and decided, 'This is who I'm going to be.' And she was getting there. Progress, not perfection.

_Now I'm no longer doubtful of what I'm living for  
And if I make you happy, I don't need to do more_

She carefully wiped her tears as she looked at him. He was so handsome, all dressed up in his Tom Ford suit that fit him like a glove. She supposed she wasn't so bad herself. They cleaned up nice. But she liked them better messy. "You wanna get outta here?" she asked.

Rick responded with only a slow smile at first, their dance coming to a halt, and they just stood there in the middle of the dance floor. "We can't just leave. Can we?"

Michonne shrugged and looked around the lively room, finding the brides sweetly dancing in a corner together and it solidified her decision. She'd come to wish Sasha well, to see her happy, and she'd done that. They didn't need to stay for cake and champagne for it to count. "I've done it before," she joked.

Rick's smile turned into a laugh and then back to a smile again. "Let's go," he said.

' _Cause you make me feel_  
_You make me feel_  
 _You make me feel like a natural woman_

Hand in hand, the two of them left the dance floor and – after finding Michonne's clutch – the building, full of people who would never even notice they were gone. And when they made it outside, they started walking so fast they were almost running, as if they might get caught; but more like they couldn't wait to start their lives together. Rick was parked in a lot near a set of train tracks, and he carried Michonne across them so her heels wouldn't get stuck, the two of them laughing along the way.

They climbed into his Chevy where they'd made a thousand memories, with hopes they'd make a million more, and he leaned across the seat to leave a simple, sweet kiss on her cheek. She smiled. She watched him start the car, that loud engine of his drowning out anything she could possibly think to say. So she merely stared at the side of his face. That lovely profile of his. The summer sun had just set, leaving a dark pink sky in its wake, and she couldn't wait to drive toward it. She had thoughts of this, back when she didn't think she could be with him – setting out on the open road, just the two of them in his old truck, listening to old music. It sounded like a scene out of a movie, and now she got to be in it.

 _Oh, baby what you've done to me_  
_You make me feel so good inside_  
 _And I just wanna be close to you_  
 _You make me feel so alive_

Rick glanced at her, and for the first time in forever, he didn't wonder, worried, what she was thinking. "Back to Tennessee?" he asked.

"Back home," she agreed. Once he was headed for the highway, she took his free hand onto hers, bringing his palm to her lips, and quietly, she declared, "I love you." She grinned when he looked at her, obviously surprised. She surprised herself, the ease and the honesty with which she said it. But it was a basic truth. One she was no longer afraid of. She felt fearless, in fact.

_You make me feel like a natural woman_

Before she met Rick, she was afraid to fall asleep; now, she dared to dream for new beginnings with happy endings. Rick, with the southern drawl that made her feel warm, and his love that made her feel whole. He filled all the hollow spaces.

* * *

Lyrics: (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman – Aretha Franklin (Lady Soul)


	20. Epilogue: I Say a Little Prayer

_**Three years later.** _

Rick let out a giant yawn as he made his way upstairs from the basement, his typically lively home dark and still as dawn approached. As he slipped into the kitchen for a glass of water and a snack, their beagle, Bucky, stirred from his sleep and excitedly went to join his owner. Rick chuckled at him, the way he was always ready to play at a moment's notice. He went to refill the dog's water bowl while he was there, and affectionately rubbed at his ears. "It's not time to get up yet, Buck," he whispered to him. "We'll be back down soon."

Bucky seemed to take the hint and went for a few sips of water before returning to his bed, while Rick made his way upstairs, in hopes of returning to his. He took care to keep his footsteps light, so as not to disturb his son or his wife, only to walk into his bedroom to find the latter wide awake in bed, typing on her computer.

"What are you doin'?" he asked, the concern in his voice apparent. He set the water on her nightstand, along with an apple, and in the light from her laptop, he couldn't help but notice her wedding ring gleaming on her finger, after the last month of not being able to fit it. "You're wearing your rings again," he commented.

Michonne stopped typing long enough to look at him, amused that he'd noticed. "Yeah," she said, glancing at her left hand admiringly. Her engagement ring was a showstopper, a giant cushion cut diamond on a pavé band – unexpected and gorgeous; while her wedding band was simple and elegant, both reminding her of Rick, and she'd missed having them on her finger. "The swelling went down enough to get them on," she explained, watching him as he slipped out of his jeans. "I doubt I'll ever be able to get them back off, but..."

"Well," Rick smirked as he pulled off his t-shirt, throwing it to a random corner before crawling back into bed. "That sounds like a sign to me."

Michonne grinned as he planted a kiss on her cheek before stretching out in front of her. "What are you doing up?" she asked, leaning back against their pillows. She let out a sharp exhale as she rubbed her belly, the familiar discomfort of being nine months pregnant rearing its ugly head. "Goodness..."

"You okay?"

"Besides it feeling like a house sitting on my bladder, I'm fine," she promised, grimacing. "Are you?"

"I'm okay," he said, keeping an eye on her. "I'm up because Carol just got here."

" _What_?" Michonne nearly shouted, incredulous. "It's five in the morning," she said as if he didn't know. "She must've been driving all night."

"Well you did tell her you were in labor," Rick reminded her quietly.

"And then I told her I wasn't," she said, her voice not lowering. "Oh my god." She made a cumbersome attempt at rolling out of bed, but Rick was quick to stop her.

"I think she just wants to make sure she's here for you," he explained, remaining as calm as he could. He held onto her leg, softly massaging it, with the hope that it would keep her in bed. "It could be any day now, and she should be close."

"But she drove all this way in the middle-"

"She's fine," Rick insisted – he'd already done the hard part for the morning, which was to get up and let her in. "I got her all settled in the basement. The bed was made, refrigerator and bathroom stocked. She just wanted to take a bath and get some sleep."

Michonne stared at her husband tentatively, as if he might be lying to her somehow. She hated that she'd worried Carol so much she drove all the way out to Nashville in the dead of night. And those mountains coming out of Gatlinburg were no joke in the dark. "You have to make her breakfast," Michonne said seriously, still rubbing her belly. "Whatever she wants."

"Whatever she wants," he agreed. He glanced at her laptop, tipped over between them now. "The better question is, why are  _you_  up?"

"Couldn't sleep," she replied, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I was barely there when you got out of bed." She sighed and pointed to her stomach. "His favorite time of day is between two and five o'clock in the morning now."

"So your solution was to work?" he asked, an eyebrow raised as he scanned the paper on her computer. She was  _supposed_  to be on maternity leave, but she clearly didn't know what it meant to actually go.

"What else am I gonna do," she said, staring at the side of his face, hoping he actually had an answer to that question. "He refuses to come out," she yelled at her stomach, assuming their little boy could understand her. She was an entire week past her due date, and her nervousness about the birth had changed paths and crossed into the territory of plain old tired. She never got to this point with Anthony, and she was thankful that she was here – being overdue was a blessing, really. But she was ceaselessly uncomfortable, exhausted, and annoyed with everything.

Rick picked up her MacBook and gently closed it before throwing it to the edge of their California king. "I can think of another way to get him outta there," he suggested with a smirk.

Michonne smiled at him tiredly, still in love with the way he said 'think.' And everything else. She appreciated that even 41 weeks into gestation, at her sweaty, gassy, cranky worst, at barely 5:00 a.m., he was still trying to get into her pants. "That's a myth, you know," she countered, trying to hide her amusement. "There's no proof that sex induces labor at all."

"All right, data scientist," he nodded, chuckling. "Is there proof that it'd hurt our chances?"

"Well… no," she grinned.

"Well then," he said, beaming back at her. He knew she was miserable, and had been for nearly two months now, but goddamn, she was beautiful. Literally full of life.

Michonne sighed softly. She couldn't really wrap her mind around having sex at the moment. She didn't feel sexy at all, which was a shame, because she was essentially always wet, and even  _craved_  it on occasion. But then heartburn would settle in, or some head-slash-backache, and she'd just want to be left alone. But she was willing to try anything at that point. Spicy food and raspberry leaf tea and daily walks around the neighborhood and hopping in the pool in the middle of the night had done nothing.

"Fine," she eventually agreed, already pulling off her nightshirt. "But don't… take your time," she requested, knowing Rick Grimes was one of few men on the planet who understood the value of foreplay. "I need you to get to the point."

"Yes, ma'am," Rick grinned, already licking his lips as her breasts fell into view. The pregnancy had nearly doubled them in size, her stiff nipples just begging to be sucked. He knew he wouldn't get the chance to truly enjoy them today, and probably not for quite a while, but it got him instantly hard, his dick pressing against his boxers before he could even get them off.

Kneeling in the bed, Michonne watched him ready himself for her, and she could feel herself getting wetter, her mouth watering for him, wanting to taste him. Funny how her desires shifted so quickly. Rick often had that effect on her. She had to remind herself that now wasn't the time – this was purely about getting this baby out of her uterus. "How do you want me?" she asked, getting down to business.

"You know I'm good any way," he said coolly. "What's gonna be most comfortable for you?"

Michonne shook her head, because nothing would be particularly pleasant for her at the moment. "What's your favorite position, Grimes?"

Rick sighed at her inability to make anything easy. "Lie on your back," he instructed.

She did as told and settled into their mattress, a roguish smirk playing on her face as she did. Once she moved into her third trimester, the intimate moments between them had really waned, so a part of her was looking forward to the sheer experience of it all. To have Rick touch her, and not because she needed help getting off the floor after yoga. But in a sensual way.

He pinned her between his arms before leaning in to kiss her and it took her breath away. She wasn't sure how he still managed to do that after all this time, but she really did love his kisses. The way his tongue felt against hers, the tender dance he liked to do as he explored every inch of her mouth. The gentle pull of his lips sucking on hers. She adored the light sound of their lips smacking and his low moans as he tongued her down, and most of all, when he'd pull back for gulps of air, and sometimes, he'd stop to smile at her. It all made her heart race.

Despite her directive, Rick was slow to make his way down her neck, giving special attention to her collarbone, as it was, and always had been, one of his favorite places. He'd live there if he could, just enjoying the exquisiteness of her bone structure and the hue of her skin, which was darker than usual thanks to the afternoons she'd been spending in the sun. He smiled at her body trembling as he made his way downward, his face landing between her breasts. They were so plump and pert, he could feel his cock twitching excitedly at just the thought of roaming those hills. He softly licked at one nipple and the moan he received in response sent him immediately after the other. He alternated between them, tickled by the fact that he was so obviously driving her crazy.

"Rick," she whispered, her fingers already settling in her favorite place – his hair. She didn't want him to stop, even if she'd already said they didn't have time for this. But he licked her tits like he had magic in his tongue, and that feeling only amplified with her sensitive nipples. Even his lips had such a light, deft touch. God. She wanted to enjoy this, but at the rate he was going, he'd be tasting milk sooner than later. "Baby…"

"I know," he groaned, his mouth full of her and not wanting to let go. But the clock was ticking – this was for function; not fun. He pulled up reluctantly and licked his swollen lips. "You okay?"

"I'm good," she grinned. She remembered the first time they were together and just how awkward they were; appreciating how far past that they were now. They'd done everything under the sun by then – as evidenced by the baby sitting in her womb – so even their clumsiest moments, like the first time they had sex with this giant belly of hers, were just funny now.

Rick moved measuredly as he pulled Michonne toward him, her hips aligning with his so that he could enter her easily. She was wet to the touch, which made him reflexively lick his lips as he pushed inside her. He let out a quiet grunt as her pussy enveloped him like a warm, wet glove. "God," he whispered, slowly beginning to thrust, filling her to the hilt and then back out again, leaving them both moaning with every drive.

"Shit," Michonne winced, grabbing for the pillow behind her bed as he rolled his hips into her with that indelible stroke. He felt good inside her. So good. She was wet beyond belief and could feel her walls clenching around him, aching for the dick, but her back was practically screaming at her.

"I can't tell whether these faces are good or bad," Rick said. He was trying to focus on the delicious jiggle of her tits, but her strange expressions were a distraction.

"I don't either," she shook her head, still wincing. "I don't want you to stop, but... my back."

"What?" he said, reducing his already slow pace; confused by the instruction not to stop.

"Don't stop," she repeated. "Please."

"Michonne, you look like you're dying," he said. And it wasn't in the good way, where he was just good at his job. But rather that she was in pain. He came to a halt, but didn't pull out, not wanting to completely piss her off. "You wanna try a different position?" he suggested, affectionately rubbing her thigh.

"No, I can do this," she insisted. "I just need… a pillow or something."

"Michonne-"

"Rick," she cut in. "If everything goes right, this baby is probably gonna rip my vagina. So I'd love to have… just one last moment with it intact."

Rick laughed. "Five minutes ago, I had to talk you into this."

"And you're very persuasive," she retorted with a saccharine smile. "Let's do this."

"Can I just… try somethin'," he asked, hoping his idea would be the happy medium that satisfied her and didn't scare him half to death.

"I don't know if now's the time to be experimenting…"

"Well, it's always worked before," he smirked, nodding for her to lie back again, and he pulled out of her. He penetrated her instead with his tongue, making her shiver with delight as his lips made contact with her soaking wet center.

Michonne simply closed her eyes and opened her thighs as wide as she could, letting him go to town on her pussy. She could already feel the juices trickling down her body, and she tried not to think about how much she was going to miss this after birth. "God. Shit," she moaned loudly – too loudly – as she combed her fingers through his hair. She missed his long curls, the ones she could grab onto and direct him where she wanted him to go. He'd cut all his hair last summer, leaving only an inch or so for her fingers now. On the bright side, he still had that beard, and it tickled her thighs and parts upward when he buried his face in her depths. She could feel his nose on her clit – one of the unpredictably great things about that lovely nose of his – and she had to bite her lip to keep from shouting his name.

Rick couldn't help but smile at her tortured reaction as he sent his tongue deeper inside her, then in circles around her sensitive bud, making her squirm beneath him. He licked and lapped at her flesh hungrily, knowing it would be another two months, at least, before he got to devour her again. So he ate her like it would be his last meal. He could already taste her sweet cream in his mouth, and still, he didn't stop coaxing it, his hot tongue rolling through every crevice of her pussy until her legs were closing in on his head.

Michonne had two orgasms at once – two  _good_  ones, that left her legs trembling, toes curling, and the rest of her body numb as the blissful feeling exploded in her core. "Rick," she whimpered with pleasure – she still didn't know how he did that, but god, she hoped he never stopped. Her breathing was heavy, her heart was beating out of her chest. Her back still hurt like hell, but she didn't even care, because everything else felt so damn good. "You did good, baby," she declared, patting the top of his head before awkwardly rolling out of bed to head to the bathroom. She had to laugh at herself for being out of breath when she hadn't done a damn thing but enjoy her man. But that was just the effect he had on her. He'd turned orgasms into an art form, and she was his muse. God, she was lucky.

She made quick work of her after-sex pee, because she generally always had to pee anyway, and then went to retrieve her robe from her side of the bathroom. But before she could get there, she felt a pop, quickly followed by a gush of fluid, and she froze. Memories of that night came rushing back to her, haunting her, this exact same moment, this exact same feeling, recalling her joy turning to ash when she realized that it was blood trickling down her legs. She was too afraid to look now. She couldn't do it. She couldn't take it if was there. "Rick!" she screamed, panicked.

Worried, Rick made a made a mad dash to the bathroom, finding Michonne standing in front of their linen closet in a small puddle of water, not moving. "Michonne, what's wrong?"

"I  _think_  my water just broke," she explained, her eyes squeezed shut, "but I need you to tell me if there's any blood."

He walked around in front of her, apprehensively examining her as liquid from her body continued to leak onto the floor. Inwardly, he was sighing with relief as he took his wife's hand. "It's all clear, hon."

Michonne opened her eyes reluctantly, and she tightened her grip on his hand as she looked down to see for herself. It truly looked like water, with a light, sweet scent to it all. "Shit," she smiled with realization. "My water broke."

"Your water broke," Rick agreed, grinning brightly, those blue eyes twinkling. "Sounds like… we might have a baby today?"

She nodded, her smile turning into tears – tears of joy and mirth and pure relief. "We might have a baby today."

Rick carefully and happily stepped into the madness with her, gracing her forehead with a tender kiss. He knew when they decided to start trying for a baby, it wasn't going to be easy on her. After Anthony, this was probably the hardest thing she ever had to do – to purposefully try again, knowing the possible outcome. But she'd moved through this pregnancy like a champ, and now they just had one more hurdle – before the real race began, of course. "Damn, I'm good," he grinned, suggesting that he was what got her water to break – and almost instantly, at that.

Michonne only shook her head, but she couldn't really deny that he did seem to have a magic touch. "You are," she said, resting a hand on his bare chest as she stared up at him. From top to bottom, inside and out, he was purely, wholly good. "You ready?" she asked, a smile on her lips and in her eyes.

He nodded as he absently rubbed at her back – what was meant to soothe her was really for his own comfort. "Yeah."

* * *

"Mornin'," Rick gleefully greeted his soon-to-be-elder son, finding him sitting at the kitchen island, chowing down on breakfast and glued to his iPad. Bucky was at his feet, likely waiting for a bite of whatever Carl was eating.

"Hey, Dad," Carl responded, not looking up from his device; oblivious to all the goings-on in the house that morning.

"I'm glad I found you," Rick said as he went to turn off the overhead light. The sun was shining in the room from all directions. "And not just because you're wastin' electricity," he said.

"What's up?" the preteen asked, his mouth full of peanut butter toast.

"I'm gonna be taking you to camp today," he said, looking at his watch, seeing it was nearly 8:00 already. "And then your mom's gonna pick you up this afternoon. So make sure you bring whatever you might need in case you have to spend the night over there."

Carl frowned at the sudden change of plans. Now that his dad wasn't a single parent anymore – and they lived thirty miles from his mom and Shane – it was rare he altered schedules at the last minute. Everyone typically had 24 hours notice for any rearrangements. "Why isn't Michonne taking me?" he asked.

"Because I can't," Michonne said from the steps, letting out a small sigh as she made her way down them. She couldn't remember whose bright idea it was to move into a new house while she was pregnant, but navigating a new set of stairs with an extra thirty pounds of concentrated weight had proven daunting as hell. It took her a full two minutes to get downstairs, and double that to get back up. On today, especially, she was exhausted by the time she reached the boys in the kitchen. "My water broke a few hours ago, so if all goes as planned," she said to Carl, leaning against the counter, "I'm gonna have a baby today."

"Holy shit," he replied without thinking, excited by the news.

"Carl," Rick and Michonne scolded him in unison.

"Sorry," he returned, cringing, his excitement making him forget he wasn't with his friends. "I'm just happy we're gonna finally get to meet him. It feels like it's been  _forever_."

Michonne sent him a look as she summoned the strength to make her way to the refrigerator, her black sundress swaying as she waddled.

"Have you guys called Nabila already?" Carl asked, wanting to know just how close his little brother was to arriving. "Should I stay home?"

"You're not staying home," Michonne returned. "Nothing's even happened yet."

"And we texted Nabila this morning," Rick submitted. "She has another delivery she's assisting with, but if Michonne goes into active labor, she'll be on her way."

"All right," Carl said, not liking the sound of that. "You know mom's midwife missed Judith's entire birth."

Michonne chuckled at his warning, as if they needed it. No one would ever forget the drama of Lori not making it to the hospital because Judith came so quickly. Rick and Michonne had just returned from Sasha's wedding, trying to enjoy their reunion, when they got the call about the baby girl's arrival. It was one of many reasons she and Rick were opting for a home birth now. "I won't be going anywhere," Michonne assured him. "And Carol got here this morning, so if push comes to shove, someone here knows what they're doing."

He accepted that answer and continued with his cereal while his parents went on with their tasks. "I know it would be weird to have the baby outside, but if you wanted to, could you just use our pool instead of that tub thing?" Carl wondered out loud.

Rick looked at his son, enjoying his curiosity, but also concerned about his critical thinking skills. "It wouldn't be safe to have a baby in a pool full of chlorine," he explained.

"And the water has to be a specific temperature," Michonne appended. "Our pool is an uncontrolled environment."

"What if the baby takes, like, twelve hours? How do you keep the water warm?"

"That's why we have the tub," she said. "It tells-" She stopped mid-sentence and reached out for the counter, needing support as she finally felt what she assumed to be her first contraction. "Shit," she grimaced. " _Shit_."

Rick and Carl both dropped what they were doing to rush to her side, allowing her to hold their hands until the pain passed. She nodded when she could feel it dampen, and her ability to speak returned. "I'm okay," she exhaled, grateful that it wasn't particularly long or excruciating; it did its damage and left. "It wasn't too bad."

"You should go sit down on the couch," Rick said, already trying to escort her toward the living room. "I'll get you whatever you need."

"I just want some toast," she said, stopping him before she could get too far away from Carl. "Just because I'm not at work doesn't mean I won't be getting updates from your instructors," she told her stepson. "You can work on your comics all you want when you get home."

"Okay," he said glumly, not expecting that he could still get in trouble for this in summer camp. Art school was supposed to be fun. But obviously not when one of his parents worked at the university where the camp took place. He wasn't about to argue with Michonne, and certainly not when she was in labor, so he knew it was best to just do what he was told.

"I love you," she said, kissing his temple, as he'd gotten too tall for her to reach his forehead now. "I'll see you tonight."

Carl smiled at his stepmother, hoping, for her sake – and his own – that she wouldn't have to be pregnant for too much longer. "I hope you don't have the baby without me," he said with a seriousness that he only could've inherited from his father. "But if you do... you got this."

Michonne smiled back at him appreciatively and nodded. "I'll try to make you proud."

* * *

As the day wore on, morning turning to afternoon, Michonne and Rick, along with Carol, were still anxiously waiting to get the delivery show on the road. Her contractions came slow and irregularly, signaling that she wasn't particularly close to pushing this baby out. So Michonne tried to distract herself with books and television and foot rubs from her husband and walks with the dog, but it all only seemed to drive her crazier. Because it just gave her more time to think about all the things that could go wrong in the next 24 hours. Even when everything had gone right so far.

"I'm so hungry," Michonne sighed as she watched Bucky tear into a piece of watermelon, finding herself wanting some too. "Am I still allowed to eat?"

"Of course you are," Carol offered, strolling back in from the kitchen to sit with her friend. "Hospitals punish you with that rule so they won't be liable if something happens," she explained. "Yet another reason why doing this at home is a far superior choice."

Michonne nodded, though her uncertainty was apparent. It was a big decision to try a home birth after the tragedy of her first pregnancy. But she also didn't  _want_  to return to a hospital for this, all those reminders, and, as Carol stated, rules. If Rick happened to lose his mind – not that she could imagine he would – she didn't want to have to worry about giving birth alone. So she was putting her trust in Carol, and by extension, their midwife, Nabila, to guide her through this safely.

"Remind me again how long you've been doing this?" she asked of her doula. Her voice strained and she squeezed her eyes shut as another contraction passed through.

Carol watched her, mentally timing how long her contorted face lasted; when it got to more than thirty seconds, she checked her watch while lightly stroking Michonne's thigh to comfort her. "Sixty seconds…" she nodded encouragingly.

"Shit," she breathed through gritted teeth, the pressure not stopping.

"Eighty seconds…"

Michonne let out a giant sigh of relief when it finally eased, and she was able to release her grip on the couch. "I cannot believe women have sex with men ever again after going through this," she huffed, throwing her short locs into a low ponytail.

"She hasn't lost her sense of humor," Carol said, grinning at her as she rubbed her back. "Eighty-five seconds is good. You're at about seven minutes apart now."

It had been nine hours since her water broke, and it felt like she hadn't been getting anywhere until now. She promptly burst into tears, startling everyone in the room, including Bucky. "It's just hormones," she promised, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all. Before she knew it, Rick was at her feet, and she ran her fingers through his hair, an attempt to assure him she was fine. "Seven minutes apart," she said.

"I heard," he grinned, leaning in to kiss her knee. "And it only took you all day."

"Guess you're not as good as you thought," she quipped.

Rick wiped at her tears, relieved to see her smiling. He really didn't know what to expect here, so he'd been anticipating the worst, but they were on the precipice of the actual birth, and she still seemed okay. "What do you want to eat?" he asked. "I'll make you somethin'."

She shook her head, having forgotten about her appetite with the news that her contractions were escalating. "You should get the tub ready," she suggested. "I wanna go in once we get to five minutes."

"Of course," he said, standing to his feet. "Ninety-seven degrees, right?" he asked Carol.

"Correct," she nodded, glancing at her watch again. "You should take Bucky downstairs before you start," she suggested. "And if I were you, I'd start charging your phone so it'll be ready to record when the time comes."

"No," Michonne was quick to interject, still breathing through her lips as she rubbed her belly. "Rick is not allowed to record this."

"What?" Carol laughed, figuring those hormones were doing their thing again.

"You cannot let him near that phone," she pled. "Despite my best efforts, he has no idea what he's doing."

"Well wait a minute," Rick cut back in. "I've recorded plenty of things successfully."

"You've also sent my nudes to your brother, so… no," Michonne said pointedly. "I love you. I trust you to fill up the tub and you're probably gonna be the one to get me through this. But someone else is going to have to set up the recording."

"I resent this," he sighed kiddingly; still, he turned to go complete the task at hand.

"You're doing amazing, sweetie," Michonne called after him sweetly. She waited until he was gone from the room to turn to Carol, her expression and her mood turning solemn. "Am I gonna be okay?" she asked her.

Carol's gaze turned sympathetic, as she realized her friend had probably been masking her fears all day with a good mood. "Michonne…"

"I know. I know. Everything seems fine right now, but last time… everything was fine, until it wasn't."

"Well. I don't know if that's true," Carol said, having learned a lot about Michonne's prior relationship and even her previous pregnancy over the years. "You were under a lot of stress. Taking care of you, your baby, and your boyfriend."

Michonne made a face, deciding she could agree with that.

"Everything is going to according to plan," Carol assured her, her voice steeped in that quiet confidence of hers. "And if there's  _any_  sign of trouble, we're gonna get you to the hospital right away."

Michonne nodded adamantly, believing her. A few residual tears slipped down her cheek and she wiped them away. "Listen," she said, taking Carol's hand. She glanced out to the patio to make sure Rick was still busy. "If anything happens and you have to choose between me and the baby-"

"Michonne, stop it," she interrupted, unwilling to hear it.

"No, I have to say it. Rick doesn't like to talk about it either, but I'm telling you the same thing I told him. Because I don't want him to have to make the choice," she said. "You guys save the baby."

"We're not there," Carol shook her head. "You need to focus on having a healthy, successful delivery. Because that's where we are right now."

"I am," she promised. "But I also wanna be prepared." Because she wasn't last time. And it nearly ruined her. She shook her head again, in disbelief of how close this was to actually happening. "I wish I'd let my mom come down," she said, sniffling. "She missed everything with Anthony because he came so early."

Carol replied with a warm smile and shrugged. "So you'll have another kid."

Michonne immediately balked at the idea of doing this again, but it made her chuckle, at least. "I'm gonna call her," she decided.

"You should," Carol agreed, patting her knee. "I'm gonna go help Rick with the water. But you holler if you need anything."

"I will," she smiled. She picked up her phone from the end table and quickly dialed her mother's number from memory, breathing easier when she answered on the second ring.

"Hello? Michonne?"

"Manman," Michonne greeted her, hearing the cautiousness in her mother's voice; probably concerned for the same reasons she was. "I'm in labor," she announced, hoping it would assuage that trepidation.

Rose released a light gasp. "Oh, my sweet girl," she cried, already rushing out of her seat. "We're going to catch the first flight to Tennessee we can find. Oh, my goodness. Joseph!" she yelled for her husband in her frantic glee.

Michonne laughed, finding her mother's voice pacifying in a moment where she was losing her nerve – even if said voice was yelling like a crazy person. And then came a contraction to steal that bit of peace, forcing her to drop the phone in favor of the arm of the couch. Through the torment of it, she could still hear her mother in the background of the call, talking at her father. "I'm still… here," she shouted to them.

"Sixty seconds," Carol called excitedly from the kitchen. "Keep it up."

She wanted to tell Carol to shut up, but managed to refrain, and instead picked up her phone once the pain finally subsided. Her mother was still talking, with no clue that she hadn't been there. "Mom," she said calmly. Nothing. "Ma." Still going. " _Mother_!"

"Yes, sweetie," she asked, finally stopping long enough to hear her daughter.

"Could you do me a favor? Before you look for flights and everything gets chaotic?"

"Anything," Rose returned emphatically. "What is it?"

"I'd really like it if you could just... pray with me," Michonne asked. After all the times her mother told her, ' _Being with child is the closest you will ever be to God in your life_ ,' she'd finally taken heed.

"O, Bondye! Of course, child," she said, smiling into the phone. "Of course."

Michonne let out a sigh of relief that she wasn't going to get a lecture along with it about how she needed to go to church if she wanted prayers. Her mother was good for that, too. But instead, she got a simple yes. "Thank you," she said.

"Where is my son-in-law?" Rose asked before they could think to get started. "He should be with you."

"He's… I dunno," she sighed, scanning the immediate area for a glimpse of him. "Rick!" she yelled for him, sounding more like her mother than she would ever admit.

"When you pray for your children, you should do so with their father," Rose advised, just as her own husband settled in beside her.

"Okay, Ma," Michonne nodded as Rick rushed in from the patio, confused, and she gestured for him to take a seat beside her. She put her device on speakerphone and told her mother, "He's here now."

Rose exhaled deeply before beginning, "Rendons grâce à Dieu-"

"In English, Mommy," Michonne interrupted to remind her.

"Sorry, dear. I'm a bit nervous," Rose admitted, as she often switched between French and Haitian Creole in her prayers, having learned many of them as a child. But she'd forgotten that Rick wasn't yet fluent in their languages. "Praise Him," she said instead. "All loving God, you created the human family as a reflection of your own divine life so that your creation might share in your happiness. Hear our prayer for your daughter who awaits the birth of her child. She has cooperated with you in giving life. Assist her now as she prepares to give birth to the child in her womb. May Mary be her guide and support, calming her fears and strengthening her love. May your daughter be filled with your peace and blessing so that she may bring her child into this world safely and in good health to the praise and glory of your name. Bondye pwoteje ou. Amen."

Rick took his wife's hand, holding onto it for dear life, the two of them staring into each other's eyes as his mother-in-law finished her prayer. He wasn't a religious person, and never really had been, despite being born and raised in the Bible Belt, but he prayed that day. For his wife, for his sons, for their family to still be whole on the other side of all this. And he knew, without having to ask, or even think about it, that Michonne felt the same. In unison, they whispered, "Amen."

* * *

The birthing pool had been set up in the patio area of their home, where Michonne could feel like she was outside without actually being there. The sun beamed through during the day, and at night, it felt like sitting amongst the stars. It was cool. Serene. And it overlooked their yard, where their actual pool, and the sound of the fountain feeding into it, were such relaxing sights and sounds. Rick had Sade playing in the background, all of which made the last few hours of her labor bearable, at least. By 7:00 p.m., they were headed into hour fourteen.

"We should be in Gatlinburg," Michonne whispered, feeling the sweat beading at her hairline. She was leaned over the edge of the tub, trying her best to just stay comfortable, while Rick sweetly rubbed her back. "It doesn't get so hot up there."

Rick smiled at the thought as he stopped to pour a bit of cool water in her hair and down her neck. "That would've been nice," he admitted. Usually, once June hit and it was sweltering in the city, they did like to spend as much time in the mountains as they could. This year, there was just too much going on. "But so is this."

"The water does ease the contractions," she said, closing her eyes, just as another one did its best to prove her wrong. She moaned through the discomfort, but all the while thankful that Rick was close by – she could feel him kissing her forehead, his delightful, deep drawl steadily encouraging her.

"You're almost there, baby," he whispered.

She nodded against him, unsure that was actually true. But she was okay. Compared to her last pregnancy, she was  _great_. "I could do this all day," she said, exhaling her pain.

Rick smiled at her and kissed the side of her face. "I'm gonna get you another cold compress," he said. "Just keep breathing."

"I will." She watched him head back inside, smiling at his t-shirt and even his jeans being covered in random wet spots thanks to her grabbing him whenever she needed support. He'd always been that – there to catch her fall. Even after three years together, two of them married, she didn't know how she got so lucky, stumbling upon his cabin that day. In a way, it was as though Anthony led her to him. It was nice to think of her heartbreak in those terms – even if it took a year of therapy and a very specific network of family and friends to get there. She did get there.

Of course, all her warm and happy thoughts were interrupted by bodily functions, as had been the case all day long, leaving her re-questioning her sanity for deliberately doing this to herself. "Goddamn it," she mumbled. "I have to pee again," she called out to anyone who would listen. She was so tired by then, she no longer cared about decorum.

"All right, I got ya, girl," Nabila said, instantly appearing in front of her patient with a towel.

"Oh, wait, nope, nope, nope," Michonne reconsidered when another contraction came through. She knelt back down in the water and wailed her way through it with Nabila's help. They were coming nearly every minute and testing every ounce of resolve and strength she had within in her. "I can feel him moving," she nodded, examining her stomach in hopes that she could see him turning in there one last time. "He's dropping."

The midwife smiled at her, appreciating how peaceful this delivery was compared to the last one she'd helped with. "You're close," she promised her. "You probably should go to the bathroom now if you need to."

"Okay," she sighed heavily, knowing it would be a herculean feat to make it there. Nabila assisted her out of the pool and helped dry her off before escorting her across the house to the nearest bathroom. Michonne felt like Winnie the Pooh, walking around with her giant belly in a pink crop top and nothing else. "Hi," she waved to Rick and Carol, in the kitchen preparing cold compresses and warm refills for the tub.

Their house would be full of people soon, Michonne realized. Carl was on his way home. Rick's parents were on the road from Memphis, Glenn and Maggie from Atlanta. Her parents would be on a flight first thing in the morning, while Aaron and Ezekiel were cutting short their vacation in Oahu to get a red eye back east. Everything was so different from the last time. Thank god.

Michonne finished her business as quickly as her body would allow, and headed back out to the birth pool, where Rick was waiting for her beside it. "I'm not entirely sure I didn't just pee on our son," she joked, accepting his hand as he helped her back inside.

"I'm not sure that's how that whole thing works, but… you're the scientist, I guess," he quipped, smiling at her as she carefully lowered herself in the water.

Michonne laughed, just before another contraction made her scream and punch the floor of the pool. " _Goddamn_  it," she sighed once it was gone. "My point was, I think he's crowning."

"Shit. Really?" he exclaimed, questioning why she was so composed about the fact that their baby was finally, actually coming. "Nabila!"

"I'm here," Nabila called back; she and Carol already rushing into the room, fastening their plastic aprons and collecting their instruments and gadgets. The midwife went around the back of the pool to examine Michonne with a light, and indeed, she could see the head of the fetus emerging. "He's right there," she confirmed. "Mom, you wanna deliver on your knees like this? Or get on your back?"

Michonne looked to Rick, as if he'd somehow have the answer to the question, but he only nodded, urging her to do whatever she felt was right. She could almost hear him saying, ' _Everything's gonna be okay_.' She swallowed hard, taking her next labor pain in stride, and she said to her husband, "Can you get in with me?"

Rick cocked his head, his emotions taking over, as he was pleasantly surprised by the request. They'd ordered a bigger pool for this very reason, but after seeing other birth videos, they both thought it was best for Michonne to have the space she needed. So he hadn't seen this coming. But then, his wife was nothing if not unpredictable. And it was his favorite thing about her. "Of course," he said, beaming. "Whatever you want."

Carol looked on with a smile, remembering the two of them when they were just strangers in her store, Michonne too shattered to see what was right in front of her. How sweet it was to see how far they'd come. "All right, Dad," she said to Rick. "Take off your pants and you get in behind Mom."

"Wait," Michonne stopped him. "You are wearing underwear, right?"

"I am," he replied, smirking at her calling him out, as he pulled off his shirt first.

"He forgets sometimes," she explained, the three of them waiting for him to finish disrobing. "I didn't want any surprises for you ladies."

"We've seen it all," Nabila assured her. "Some parents wanna be fully nude. Whatever you wanna do, we'll adapt."

"Oh… no," Michonne said, looking to Rick, who was also shaking his head adamantly. "I think we're good…"

"Should I just... step in?" Rick asked once he was down to his boxers. He took off his watch and handed it to Carol.

"Right where that little seat is," Nabila nodded. "You can sit on down."

He carefully did as instructed, immersing himself in the warm water until he was seated behind his wife. Carol and Nabila then helped her reposition so that she was sitting between his legs, her back against his chest, the two of them skin to skin, her cocooned in him.

"Here comes the hard part," Nabila announced, getting on her knees in front of the couple. "Michonne, I need you take a deep breath and then start pushing," she said.

"Okay," she nodded, and her mind immediately flooded with the devastation of her first delivery. The pushing  _was_  the hardest part. Because she was alone and she knew that nothing was waiting for her on the other end. This time, she was able to reach for Rick's hand and he took it and he held onto her. She wrapped her arm around his knee and pushed with all her might, letting out a low bellow as she did. "Oh my  _god_ , it hurts," she breathed through the agony.

"You're doing great," Nabila said, shaking her head. "Take another breath and let's get ready to go again."

She nodded and inhaled, then exhaled, feeling tears and sweat already dripping down her face, and she gave it another try, with everything she could. She was breathless and getting lightheaded. "I need a minute," she shook her head.

"You got it," Nabila said, her tone warm as the water. "Just breathe."

"He's right there," Carol said reassuringly as they waited. And waited. "Just a few more pushes and you'll be meeting your son, Michonne."

"It hurts," Michonne whimpered. "I dunno if I can do this."

Rick used his free hand to wipe her forehead as he gently kissed her face. "Hey," he said to her, squeezing her hand. "You can do this," he said into her ear.

"I can't," she cried. "Take me to the hospital."

"It's too late for that, baby," he said, rubbing his thumb along her hand. "I fell in love with you because you're a fighter," he continued as quietly as he could, as these words were just for her. "You never gave up, even when you had every right and reason to. You fought to come back, to get  _here_. Don't you dare stop now."

Michonne nodded through blood, sweat, and tears, through exhaustion and hurt, and she gave him another push. And another. In the haze of her labor, she could see Carol and Nabila nodding, urging her on; she could hear Rick's whispers of motivation, holding her up literally and figuratively. And she reminded herself that life was waiting on the other end of this.

It was surreal, how quickly it happened. It was quiet. But not the silence of death that came with her first. It was tranquil. He slipped out before she knew what was happening, and then, there was a baby in her arms.

"Oh, shit," Michonne said, delirious with joy and fatigue, seeing this tiny person sitting on her chest. "This is him?"

"That's your baby boy," Nabila confirmed, grinning as she helped wrap him in a towel. "Congratulations."

"You did it," Rick whispered, kissing her temple for the hundredth time that day as he stared at their gorgeous baby boy. His heart was going a mile a minute with his own realization that they now had another son. He tried not to show it, but over the last nine months, he had his worries about what might happen when this day finally came. But they wanted to try again –  _she_ wanted to try again – and now, here they were, with a new love of their lives.

"He's so pale," Michonne giggled, touching his tiny nose with her index finger. It took a moment for him to cry, but when he did, the sound filled the room and then her heart, and she burst into tears, too. "I can't believe he's ours," she purred, her lip quivering as she glanced at her husband.

He nodded, his own eyes welling with tears, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder. He couldn't believe it either.

The two of them gazed at their son, studying his little face, and all the features that would undoubtedly change over the days and months and years to come. Ten fingers, ten toes, two bright brown eyes, and a head full of dark hair. Tuesday, June 8 at 9:03 pm, their entire world was changed. As his cries turned to whimpers and then to silence, Michonne grinned at him as only a proud mother could, and she quietly, sweetly greeted him. "Hi, RJ," she cooed, all while wondering how this happened. How was she so lucky, she got to have  _another_  Rick Grimes? "Wow."

**-End-**


End file.
